LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 


cOioftuAo. 


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Alexander  lttcEacblan 

Selected  and  Ecited 


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With    Portraits  and   Illustrations 


I     An  Introductory  Essay  by  Rev.  E.  H.  Dewart, 
^  D.D.:  Biographical  Sketch  by  Alex.  Ham- 

ilton, MA.  M.D.;  Notes,  Glossary 
and  Index  to  First  Lines. 


I 


CLOTH,   424    PAGES, 
HALF  CALF,   GILT 


-  -       -        $1.25 

-  -       -       $2  50 

. 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 


mcEacblan's  Poetical  Klork$ 


HEwoik  of  selecting  from  the  numerous 
manuscript  poems  of  Mr.  McLachlan,  for 
public  ation  in  n  representative  volume, 
was  originally  undertaken  by  his  daugh- 
ter Mary.  This  labor  of  love,  unhap- 
pily, was  cut  short  by  heruntimely  death. 
After  a  time  a  few  friends  of  the  poet, 
considering  that  the  work  thus  inter- 
rupted should  not  be  allowed  to  fail, 
applied  themselves  to  the  somewhat  dif- 
ficult and  delicate  task  of  examining  the 
mass  of  available  material,  and  selecting 
and  arranging  such  poems  as  they  con- 
sidered most  worthy  of  a  place  in  a  volume  that,  it  was 
hoped,  would  have  a  permanent  standing  in  Canadian 
literature.  The  editors— W.  P.  Begg,  D.D.,  David  Boyle, 
Ph.B.,  E.  H.  Dewart,  D.D.,  Alex.  Hamilton,  M.A.,  M.D., 
and  George  Kennedy,  LL.D  —  have  undoubtedly  per- 
formed their  work  faithfully  and  with  excellent  dis- 
crimination, giving  to  the  public  a  volume  that  will 
be  a  positive  revelation  to  not  only  the  Canadian 
public,  but  the  Anglo-Saxon  people  as  a  whole,  of  the 
poetic  genius  of  this  humble  and  unpretentious  Scot- 
tish-Canadian bard. 

The  first  part  of  the  book  is  devoted  to  poems  of  a 
general  character  ;  after  which  the  following  sections 
appear  in' the  order  named:  Songs  and  Ballads- 
Nature  Poems— Canadian  Idyls— Idyls  of  the 
Pioneers— Scottish  Portraits— Miscellaneous  ; 
closing  with  a  few  prose  poems  under  the  general 
heading  of  "  Sketches  from  the  Wanderer." 

Dr.  Dewart's  Introductory  Essay  is  an  eloquent 
plea  for  a  proper  recognition  of  the  work  of  our  coun- 
try's poets,  and  a  sympathetic  appreciation  of  the 
pioneer  bard,  whom  he  does  not  hesitate  to  place  in  a 
rank  little  below  that  of  the  great  Scottish  poet,  Robert 
Burns,  while  declaring  him  incomparably  above  the 
"  peasant  bard  "  in  "  moral  grandeur  and  beauty." 


Dr.  Hamilton  has  contributed  an  admirable  Bio- 
graphical Sketch,  which  might,  indeed,  be  called  a 
character  sketch,  so  vividly  is  the  personality  of  its 
subject  presented  to  the  mind  of  the  reader.  It  may 
startle  some  English  readers  to  find  McLachlan  com- 
pared to  advantage  in  certain  respects  with  Burns  and 
Cowper  and  Wordsworth.  To  Dr.  Hamilton  also  we 
are  indebted  for  some  ten  pages  of  most  interesting 
Notes.  The  comprehensive  Glossary,  prepared  by 
Mr.  David  Boyle,  will  serve  to  initiate  the  reader  into 
the  mysteries  of  the  "broad  Scots"  in  which  many  of 
the  poems  are  written. 

A  frontispiece  Portrait,  executed  by  Mr.  J.  E.  Laugh- 
lin,  shows  Mr.  McLachlan  in  middle  life  ;  a  photo 
taken  by  Mr.  Arthur  Cox,  A.R.C.A.,  presents  him  in  a 
characteristic  pose  of  his  old  age.  View's  of  his  farm 
residence  in  Amaranth  township,  from  the  brush  and 
pen  of  Mr.  Cox,  are  also  reproduced  in  the  volume. 


extracts  from  the  Introductory  essay. 

"The  most  distinguishing  characteristic  of  McLachlan's  poetry 
is  his  intense  feeling  of  regard  for  the  common  people.  .  .  . 
His  simple  and  lucid  style,  his  warm  brotherly  sympathy  with 
all  who  toil  or  suffer,  and  his  honest  hatred  of  all  oppression 
and  injustice,  make  him  pre-eminently  the  poel  of  'the  common 
people.'  In  ringing  words  which  all  can  understand,  he  voices 
the  thought  and  feeling  of  the  great  toiling  democracy.  .  .  . 
There  are,  however,  some  poems  which  specially  illustrate  our 
author's  genius.  If  he  has  mainly  chosen  homely  and  common 
subjects,  his  fine  ode  on  God  shows  that  he  can  fitly  treat  the 
loftiest  theme.  In  this  piece  there  is  elevation  of  thought,  sub- 
lime imagery,  and  a  rhythmic  music  which  makes  a  pleasing 
harmony  between  the  sense  and  the  sound.  ...  In  May 
there  is  a  dancing,  sparkling  gladness  in  keeping  with  the  joyous- 
ness  of  the  season  and  scenery  it  describes.  In  his  poem  on 
flu  run  there  is  a  mastery  of  the  Scottish  dialect,  and  a  felicitous 
indication  of  the  distinguishing  features  of  the  poet's  character 
as  revealed  in  several  of  his  poems.  In  Britannia  sententious 
expression  and  patriotic  fire  are  blended.  ...  I  have  spoken 
of  McLachlan's  power  to  penetrate  the  crust  of  outward  appear- 
ances, and  unveil  the  meaning  hidden  from  common  sight  at  the 
heart  of  things.  This  is  strikingly  illustrated  in  that  fine  lyrical 
miniature,  Old  Hannah.  .  .  .  The  same  insight  is  seen  in 
Martha,  and  other  pieces." 


— 3— 


Personal  and  Press  Opinions. 
««« 

From  a  mass  of  available  material  a  e  have  made  the  subjoined 

extracts,  all  written  previous  to  the  poet's  death, 

and  many  of  them  long  years  ago : 


"We  have  always  taken  a  deep  interest  in  Canada,  and  will 
henceforth  take  a  deeper  interest  trom  knowing  that  it  contains  a 
citizen  so  truly  inspiied  with  the  genius  of  poetry  as  the  author 
of  these  beautiful  lyrics."— Sir  Archibald  Alison,  author  of  "The 
Histor}'  of  Europe." 

"Had  McLachlan's  volume  appeared  with  the  name  of  Burns 
or  Motherwell  attached  to  it,  some  of  his  pieces  would  have  been 
hailed  as  among  the  finest  productions  of  poetic  genius."— Mrs. 
Hoodie,  author  of  "  Roughing  it  in  the  Bush." 

"  Why  must  we  always  make  our  discoveries  at  secondhand  of 
the  genius  in  our  midst  ?  Within  two  or  three  years  Mr.  McLach- 
lan has  published  a  volume  of  poems  containing  pieces  not  un- 
worthv— if  I  may  presume  to  say  so— of  Tannahill  or  Motherwell." 
—Thomas  D'Akc'y  McGke,  M.P.P. 

"  Mr.  McLachlan,  the  author  of  this  volume,  has  breathed  his 
hopes  and  fears  and  fine  imaginations  into  tangible  verse.  Many 
of  the  lyrics  are  ably  written,  and  almost  sing  themselves  while 
you  read  them."— The  Glasgow  Citizen. 

"  It  is  but  sober  truth  that  some  of  his  pieces  are  not  greatly 
inferior  for  wit,  humor,  sparkling  imagery,  and  original  thought, 
to  the  best  pieces  of  Burns,  while  the  moral  tone  of  his  produc- 
tions is  far  superior  to  much  that  came  from  the  pen  ol  the  Ayr- 
shire Bard.  In  fact,  McLachlan  bids  fair  to  be  the  p  >cti'ul  Burns 
of  bis  day.  .  .  .  [twill,  we  think,  admit  of  no  question  that  McLach- 
lan is  by  far  our  best  and  sweetest  singer.  '1  he  address  to  Gari- 
baldi is,  all  national  predilections  apart,  equal  t<>  ••Scuts  wha 
hae  wi'  Wallace  bled,"  and  we  cannot  help  thinking  that  were 
this  soul-stirring  lyric  turned  into  good  Italian,  and  sung  through 
the  streets  of  Rome  and  Venice,  it  would  be  no  feeble  auxiliary 
to  the  cause  of  liberty  in   Italy. "-The  late   PhOFOBBOB  GbOKSB, 

Vice-Principal  Queen's  University,  Kingston. 

"Mr.  McLachlan  himself  is  a  striking  instance  of  what  native 
genius,  combined  with  mental  energy  and  intrepid  will,  can  do  in 
'he  way  of  elevating  a  human  being.  Possessed  o!  a  highly  poetic 
temperament,  with  that  happy  commixture  of  the  material  and 
the  ideal,  which  alike  prevent  the  emanations  of  the  mind  from 
twittering  into  spiritualized  attenuations,  or  becoming  grot 
of  the  earth,  earthy,  this  nobleman  from  nature's  lathe  con- 
vinces you  at  once,  by  his  manner  as  well  as  by  his  matter,  that 
he  is  destined  to  make  bis  mark  on  the  age  in  which  he  lives."— 
The  Vaily  Journal,  St.  Catharines. 


"  hi  this  volume  we  see  how  deeply  the  poet  has  felt  hisdutj 
to  his  adopted  country,  and  how  he  comes  forward  to  discharge 
it  like  a  patriotic  volunteer.  We  need  many  such  books,  cal- 
culated for  our  own  meridian,  colored  bytjur  own  scenery,  and 
am  liorative  of  our  own  conditions.  Here  is  a  man  of  genius  and 
purpose,  who  evidently  lias  in  him  much  more  than  he  has  yet 
found  audience  or  opportunity  for."  —  The  Home  Journal. 

"II  is  refreshing  to  read  the  simple,  direct  and  unassuming 
lays  of  Alexander  lIcLachlan.  He  writes  in  honest  phrases  of 
much  beauty  and  deep  feeling  from  the  pure  love  of  ui^  i'i'-r  vent 
to  his  imaginings.  As  well  attempt  tochecs  the  morning  song 
of  the  lark  or  the  imirinnr  of  a  mountain  burn  in  its  pathway  to 
the  sea.  .  .  .  The  ballad  Mary  White  would  not  do  discredit 
to  Tannahill.  .  .  .  External  nature  is,  however,  our  poet's 
most  natural  theme.  He  revels  in  it,  and  like  the  true  limner 
that  he   is,  rejoices   in    singing    its    praises   and  painting    its 

....  I  have  ii"  hesitation  in  stating  that  in  my  esti- 
mation his  poem  God  Btands  par  excellence  among  McLachlan's 
productions;  indeed,  ii  is  equal  in  grandeur  und  sublimity  to  the 

:   rts  "i  the  greatest  Anglo-Saxon  and  Celtic  poets.     His 

Britannia  and  Garibaldi  stir  us  as  would  the  clarion  notes  of  a 

bugle-call  on  a  battlefield.    His  John  Tamson'q  Bairns  and  The 

l.ftn  i-II'i'lit    Laddie    show    his    quiet    hstomr,     versatility   and 

ended    sarcasm.     His    Baliirlaverfti-s    not  lose  by  com- 

i  with  Macaulay's  Lay*  of  .vHrZii>  Rome,  or  Aytoun's 
illadt  of  Scottish  Chivalry." — From  an  article  con- 
tributed to  The  Week  h^  Daniel  Clash,  Ml).,   Superintendent 

Uylum  for  the  Insane,  Toronto. 

•■  We  recognize  in  Mr.  McLachlan  high  poetic  genius,  a  man 

destined  to  take  a  stand  aj  agnized  spiritual  kings  of 

....     In  his  Address  <<•  the  Deity  we  have  an 

■  thought  and  conception  of  the  sublime,  which  would  add 

we  had  almost  said,  to  names  we  recognize  as  eternal." — 

Dr.  Howjtt,  in  TheGuelph  Herald. 

"  McLachlan's SkinHint s  Dream  should  be  written  up  on  the 

i  J   shop,  on   the  walls  of  every   mart,  and  this  would 

do  more  t  ir  the  o  immunity  than  a'l  the  sermons  ever  pri 

all  the  articles  ever  penned.     I  might   go  on  to  show  you  that 

UcLachlan  is  almost  a.s  widely   national  as  Burns  was;   thai  he 

;   i-  man,  t be  same  love  for  nature,  thi 
w..ndrous  eye  for  the  beautiful  in  the  works  of  God,  and  verj 
p  ible  power  ol  expressing  that  ;  but  I  need  n  it  dwel   upon 
these  things,  for  a  man  would  not  be  a  poet  at  all  ui 

r    dl,   you   will   say,   has   McLach  an   the 

-  of  Burns?     No,  no ;  we  cannot  saj  this    we  dare  it 

I'.ut   he    has  a    genius  of  his  nun.       I    maintain   that 

McLachlan  is  a  true,  a  real  p  et     No  man  co  Id  love  nai 

he   does     no  man  could  write      -  10   man  could  have 

I  the  specimens  [have  given  you  tonight    no  man  could 

1  picted  the  dying  scenes  ol  Donald  Ban,  his  farewell  to  the 

Miie_' in  h;.s  last   agony   with  lus  old  native 

ons      n« ■  eould  lia      told   the    wild.  Weird    wit. 

of  Granny  Broon     no  on",  eould  have  painted  as  he  has  done 

o/it  Hannah,  Avid  Hani;,-,  the  great   old   hills,   the  Halls  of 

'.  the  ran,  the  moon,  the  mighty  deep,  the  perplexing 


— 5— 


questions  which  beset  our  mortal  destiny,  the  simplicity  of  the 

child's  hi  art      1   saj   no  man  could  have  done  this  without  having 

in  him  '  the  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  shore.'  Oh.manyadaj 
have  I  held  com  rse  with  this  man  —many  a  weary  hour  have  his 
three  volumes  while  I  away— many  a  time  have  they  formed  the 
subject  of  talk  in  my  quiet  home.     May  Heaven  Mess  the  author 

of  them— may  he  live  to  a  great  old  age— may  he  live  till  his  name  is 
a  household  word  in  his  native  as  well  as  in  bis  adopted  country — 

may  he  live  till  his  p  iems  are  sung  in  many  a  home,  cherished  in 
many  a  heart.''     From  a  Lecture  by  Kt.v.  William  GaFP,  Paisley, 

Scotland. 

"Your  young  ambition  is  amply  realised;  you  have  already 
made  your  imprints  on  the  sands  of  time,  and  left  a  rich  | 
to  the  world  of  eternal  moral  verities,  and transcendently  great 
principles  clad  in  the  beautiful,  the  captivating  attire  of  genuine 
poetry.  You  have  left  the  English  language  even  richer  by  the 
fine  telling  melodious  ring  it  receives  from  your  poetic  anvil,  and 
given  fresh  import  nice  to  our  own  loved  Sc  ittish  Doric  by  the 
beautiful  use  you  have  made  of  it  in  several  of  your  piece- 
have  invested  a  mystic  charm  on  the  Halloween  o'  our  youthful 
days.  You  sing  o'  oor  old  Cartha,  that  was  in  your  young  days 
the  stream  of  your  heart,  and  how  tenderly  and  touchingly  you 
strike  the  chords !  You  sing  in  the  same  touching  strains  o'  the 
weel-ken't  biggin  o'  your  childhood  ;  yon  address  the  hoary  ruins 
of  Paislej  Abb  inquiring  spirit  o'  an  antiquarian  and 

historian  ;  the  beautiful,  the  picturesque  scenerj  o'  Cast!  isemple, 
wi'  its  long-tailed  history,  has  charmed  a  flower  oot  o'  your  rich 
administering  bouquet.  You  have  realized  an  exquisite  lovely 
being,  named  Mary  White,  and  clothed  her  with  sillery  silky 
raiment  that  will  never  fade  away,  nor  you.  the  painter  o'  her 
beauty  and  worth,  be  e'.-r  forgot.  Both  will  he  conveyed  down  in 
the  stream  o' popularity  to  .   9,  and  sung  to  thousands 

yet  unborn." — From  an  address  by  Mr:  John  Pb  user  (McLachlan's 
"Old  Schoolm  public  meeting  in  honor  of  the  poet  in 

his  native  town,  Johnstone.  Renfrewshire.  Scotland. 


Ulilliam  Brings 

Publisher 
29-33   Richmond  St.   West,  Toronto 


Hunter.  Rose  &  Co  , 

PRINTERS  AND  BINDERS, 
TORONTO. 


From  i  Photograph  bj  liwing&Co.    Hunter,  Boae  &  Co.,  Printer*,  rurontc 


ALI^,    ^©LAO^JLA 


POEMS  AND  SONGS. 


BY 


ALEXANDER    McLACHLAN. 


TORONTO : 

ROSE     PUBLISHING     COMPANY. 
1888. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  ef  the  Par- 
liament of  Canada,  in  ihe  year  one  thousand 
eight  hundred  and  eighty-eight,  by  HUNTER, 
Rose  &  Co„  in  the  office  of  the  Minister  of 
Agriculture. 


CONTENTS. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


PAGE 

God 9 

Garibaldi 12 

Old  Hannah    13 

The  Rain  it  falls    14 

May 15 

Britannia 17 

Ah,  Me! 18 

Mystery 19 

Who  knows? 20 

We're  all  afloat  22 

Song 23 

Man 24 

The  Song  of  the  Sun 27 

Ideal 30 

Woman 32 

We  live  in  a  ricketty  House...  34 

David,  King  of  Israel 35 

,  Robert  Burns 38 


PAOE 

Up  and  be  a  Hero 40 

Infinite 42 

Wilson's  Grave  45 

Napoleon  on  St.  Helena  46 

Martha 48 

Change 50 

The  Wise  Woman 53 

Traditions    56 

The  Seer 57 

The  Anglo-Saxon  61 

Where'er  we  may  wander 63 

A  Song  of  Charity 65 

Catholic  Mother  and  Child  ...  66 

Awful  Spirit 70 

To  a  Violet 73 

Stars 75 

If  you  would  be  Master  77 

O,  spread  the  glad  Tidings  ...  78 


IDYLS  OF   THE   DOMINION. 


r    Elora 83 

The  Hall  of  Shadows 85 

O  !  Come  to  the  Greenwood 

Shade 89 


The  Gipsy  Blood 91 

The  Settler's  Sabbath  Day  ...  93  v- 

A  Backwoods  Hero 97 

Sparking 101 


478 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


/ 


PAGE 

Neighbour  John +.  102 

Fire  in  the   Woods  ;  or  the 

Old  Settler's  Story 104 

The  Man  who  rose  from  no- 
thing   108 

The  Pines 109 

The  Backwoods  Philosopher. .  Ill 
(lid-.  Canada;  or,    Geo   Buck, 

Gee 114 

Companions   in  Solitude  ;  or 

Reminiscences  of  the  Bush.  116 
Young  Canada  ;  or,  Jack's  as 

good's  his  Master  116 

The  Old  Settler's  Address  to 

his  old  Log -house 120 

The  Maple  and  the  Thistle  ; 

or,  Roderick  of  the  Hammer  123 

ThePic-Nic 125 

To  a  Humming  Bird 129 

"Wee  Davie  Lowe" 131 


Spring 133 

Going  to  the  Bush 135 

OldHoss 138 

Young  Hoss 141 

The  Death  of  the  Ox 144 

October    148 

Indian  Summer 151 

Hurrah  for  the  New  Domi- 
nion    154 

Acres  of  your  own 155 

Whip-Poor- Will 156 

Ontario 157  W 

The  Maple  Tree 159*/ 

Autumn  Leaves 160 

Bobolink 161 

To  an  Indian's  Skull 162 

Grandmother's  Story  to  her 
Grand  -  children  ;  or,  the 
Evil  Eye 166 


MISCELLANEOUS    SCOTTISH   PIECES. 


Hallowe'en 171 

Cartha  again  176 

Scotland  re-visited  ;    or,  the 

Wanderer's  Return    177 

Paisley  Abbey 180 

Lord  Lindsay's  Return 184 

Scotland  186 

The  Sempill  Lords 188 

•    Mary  White 190 

I  winna  gae  hame 192 

The   Wee    Laddie's  Summer 

Day 195 


PAGE 

The  Death  of  Evan  Dhu  198 

Love 201 

The  Lang  Heided  Laddie 202 

Hugh  Macdonald  204 

Sighs  in  the  City 208 

When  George  the  Fourth  was 

King 210 

The  Age  of  Jollity 212 

OldAdam  214 

The  Halls  of  Holyrood 218 

We're  a'  John  Tamson's  Bairns  220 
Longings  in  London 222 


Miscellaneous    Poems. 


GOD. 

AIL,  Thou  great  mysterious  Being  ! 
Thou  the  unseen,  yet  All-seeing, 

To  Thee  we  call. 
How  can  a  mortal  sing  Thy  praise, 
Or  speak  of  all  Thy  wondrous  ways  \ 

God  over  all. 

God  of  the  great  old  solemn  woods, 
God  of  the  desert  solitudes 

And  trackless  sea ; 
God  of  the  crowded  city  vast, 
God  of  the  present  and  the  past, 

Can  man  know  Thee  ? 


God  of  the  blue  vault  overhead, 

Of  the  green  earth  on  which  we  tread, 

Of  time  and  space  ; 
God  of  the  worlds  which  Time  conceals, 
God  of  the  worlds'which  Death  reveals 

To  all  our  race. 


10  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

God  of  the  glorious  realms  of  thought, 
From  which  some  simple  hearts  have  caught 

A  ray  divine ; 
And  the  songs  which  rouse  the  nations, 
And  the  tei'rible  orations, 

Lord  God  are  Thine. 

And  all  the  forms  of  beauty  rare, 
Which  toiling  genius  moulds  with  care, 

Yea,  the  sublime, 
The  sculptured  busts  of  joy  and  woe 
By  Thee  were  fashioned  long  ago, 

In  that  far  clime. 

Far  above  earth  and  space  and  time, 
Thou  dwellest  in  Thy  heights  sublime. 

Beneath  Thy  feet 
The  rolling  worlds,  the  heavens  are  spread, 
Glory  infinite'round  Thee  shed, 

Where  angels  meet. 

From  out  Thy  wrath  the  earthquakes  leap, 
And  shake  the  world's  foundations  deep, 

Till  nature  groans. 
In  agony  the  mountains  call, 
And  ocean  bellows  throughout  all 

Her  frightened  zones. 

But  where  Thy  smile  its  glory  sheds, 
The  lilies  lift  their  lovely  heads, 

And  the  primrose  rare  : 
And  the  daisy,  deck'd  with  pearls 
Richer  than  the  proudest  earls 

On  their  mantles  wear. 


GOD.  11 


These  Thy  preachers  of  the  wild-wood, 
Keep  they  not  the  heart  of  childhood 

Fresh  within  us  still  ? 
Spite  of  all  our  life's  sad  story, 
There  are  gleams  of  Thee  and  glory 

In  the  daffodil. 

And  old  Nature's  heart  rejoices, 
And  the  rivers  lift  their  voices, 

And  the  sounding  sea ; 
And  the  mountains,  old  and  hoary, 
With  their  diadems  of  glory, 

Shout,  Lord,  to  Thee  ! 

But  though  thou  art  high  and  holy, 
Thou  dost  love  the  poor  and  lowly, 

With  a  love  divine, 
Love  infinite  !  love  supernal. 
Love  undying  !  love  eternal, 

Lord  God  are  thine  ! 


12  MISCELLANEOUS  FOEMS. 


GARIBALDI. 

SONS  of  Italy,  awake, 
->  Your  hearths  and  altars  are  at  stake 
Arise,  arise,  for  Freedom's  sake, 

And  strike  with  Garibaldi ! 

The  Liberator  now  appears, 
Foretold  by  prophets,  bards,  and  seers, 
The  hero  sprung  from  blood  and  tears 
All  hail  to  Garibaldi ! 

Let  serfs  and  cowards  fear  and  quake 
0  Venice,  Naples,  Rome,  awake  ! 
Like  lava  of  your  burning  lake, 
Rush  on  with  Garibaldi ! 

Up  and  avenge  your  country's  shame  ; 
Like  ^Etna  belching  forth  her  flame, 
Rush  on  in  Freedom's  holy  name, 
And  strike  with  Garibaldi ! 

'Tis  Freedom  thunders  in  your  ears  : 
The  weary  night  of  blood  and  tears, 
The  sorrows  of  a  thousand  years, 
Cry  "  On  with  Garibaldi !  " 

The  Roman  Eagle  is  not  dead 
Her  might}7  wings  again  are  spread 
To  swoop  upon  the  tyrant's  head, 
And  strike  with  Garibaldi ! 

The  land  wherein  the  laurel  waves 
Was  never  meant  to  nourish  slaves  ; 
Then  onward  to  your  bloody  graves, 
Or  live  like  Garibaldi ! 


OLD  HANNAH. 


13 


OLD  HANNAH. 

'^jp^rS  Sabbath  morn,  and  a  holy  balm 
Mh    Drops  down  on  the  heart  like  dew, 
And  the  sunbeams  gleam 
Like  a  blessed  dream 
Afar  on  the  mountains  blue. 
Old  Hannah's  by  her  cottage  door, 
In  her  faded  widow's  cap  ; 
She  is  sitting  alone 
On  the  old  grey  stone, 
With  the  Bible  in  her  lap. 

An  oak  is  hanging  above  her  head, 
And  the  burn  is  wimpling  by ; 
The  primroses  peep 
From  their  sylvan  keep, 
And  the  lark  is  in  the  sky. 
Beneath  that  shade  her  children  played, 
But  they're  all  away  with  Death, 
And  she  sits  alone 
On  the  old  grey  stone, 
To  hear  what  the  Spirit  saith. 


Her  years  are  o'er  three  score  and  ten, 
And  her  eyes  are  waxing  dim, 
But  the  page  is  bright 
With  a  living  light, 
And  her  heart  leaps  up  to  Him 
Who  pours  the  mystic  harmony 
Which  the  soul  can  only  hear  ! 
She  is  not  alone 
On  the  old  grey  stone, 
Tho'  no  earthly  friend  is  near. 


14 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


There's  no  one  left  to  love  her  now  ; 
But  the  eye  that  never  sleeps 

Looks  on  her  in  love 

From  the  heavens  above, 
And  with  quiet  joy  she  weeps  ; 
For  she  feels  the  balm  of  bliss  is  poured 
In  her  lone  heart's  deepest  rut ; 

And  the  widow  lone 

On  the  old  grey  stone, 
Has  a  peace  the  world  knows  not. 


THE  RAIN  IT  FALLS. 


tHE  rain  it  falls,  and  the  wind  it  blows, 
And  the  restless  ocean  ebbs  and  flows, 
But  the  why  and  the  wherefore  no  one  knows. 

The  races  come  and  the  races  go, 
But  alas  !  alas  !  what  do  they  know  ? 
They  but  repeat  the  old  tale  of  woe. 

The  years  they  come  and  they  hurry  on, 
Ah,  just  as  they  did  in  the  days  agone  ! 
And  bear  us  back  to  the  vast  unknown. 

We  can't  resist  the  decrees  of  Fate, 
And  there's  nothing  for  us  but  to  wait 
'Till  Death  shall  open  or  shut  the  gate. 

For  the  rain  may  fall,  and  the  wind  may  blow, 

And  the  generations  come  and  go, 

But  the  why  and  the  wherefore  none  may  know. 


MAY.  15 


MAY. 

SING  and  rejoice  ! 

^2js^  Give  to  gladness  a  voice 

Shout  a  welcome  to  beautiful  May  ! 
Rejoice  with  the  flowers, 
And  the  birds  'mong  the  bowers, 

And  away  to  the  green  woods,  away  ! 
0,  blithe  as  the  fawn 
Let  us  dance  in  the  dawn 

Of  this  life-giving,  glorious  day  : 
Tis  bright  as  the  first 
Over  Eden  that  burst — 

0,  welcome,  young  joy -giving  May  ! 

The  cataract's  horn 

Has  awakened  the  Morn, 

Her  tresses  are  dripping  with  dew ; 
O,  hush  thee,  and  hark  ! 
'Tis  her  herald,  the  lark, 

That's  singing  afar  in  the  blue. 
Its  happy  heart's  rushing, 
In  strains  wildly  gashing, 

That  reach  to  the  revelling  earth, 
And  sink  through  the  deeps 
Of  the  soul,  till  it  leaps 

Into  'raptures  far  deeper  than  mirth. 

All  nature's  in  keeping  ! 
The  live  streams  are  leaping 
And  laughing  in  gladness  along ; 
The  great  hills  are  heaving, 


16  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

The  dark  clouds  are  leaving, 
The  valleys  have  burst  into  song. 

We'll  range  through  the  dells 

Of  the  bonnie  blue  bells, 
And  sing  with  the  streams  on  their  way ; 

We'll  lie  in  the  shades 

Of  the  flower-covered  glades, 
And  hear  what  the  primroses  say. 

0,  crown  me  with  flowers 

'Neath  the  green  spreading  bowers, 
With  the  gems  and  the  jewels  May  brings; 

In  the  light  of  her  eyes 

And  the  depth  of  her  dyes, 
We'll  smile  at  the  purple  of  kings. 

We'll  throw  off  our  years 

With  their  sorrows  and  tears, 
And  time  will  not  number  the  hours 

We'll  spend  in  the  woods, 

Where  no  sorrow  intrudes, 
With  the  streams  and  the  birds  and  the  flowers. 


BRITANNIA. 


BRITANNIA. 


LL  hail,  my  country  !  hail  to  thee, 
tQ&  Thou  birthplace  of  the  brave  and  free 
Thou  ruler  upon  land  and  sea, 

Britannia  ! 

No  thing  of  change,  no  mushroom  state 
In  wisdom  thou  canst  work  and  wait, 
Or  wield  the  thunderbolts  of  Fate, 

Britannia ! 

Oh,  nobly  hast  thou  played  thy  part  ! 
What  struggles  of  the  head  and  heart 
Have  gone  to  make  thee  what  thou  art, 

Britannia ! 

Great  mother  of  the  mighty  dead  ! 
Sir  Walter  sang  and  Nelson  bled 
To  weave  a  garland  for  thy  head, 

Britannia  ! 

And  Watt,  the  great  magician,  wrought, 
And  Shakspeare  ranged  the  realms  of  thought, 
And  Newton  soared,  and  Cromwell  fought, 

Britannia  ! 

And  Milton's  high  seraphic  art, 
And  Bacon's  head  and  Burns'  heart 
Are  glories  that  shall  ne'er  depart, 

Britannia  ! 


18  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

These  are  the  soul  of  thy  renown, 
The  gems  immortal  in  thy  crown, 
The  suns  that  never  shall  go  down, 

Britannia ! 

0,  still  have  faith  in  truth  divine  ! 
Aye  sacred  be  thy  seal  and  sign, 
And  power  and  glory  shall  be  thine, 

Britannia ! 


AH,  ME! 

0  seek  the  shore  and  learn  the  lore 
Of  the  great  old  mystic  sea, 
And  with  list'ning  ear  you'll  surely  hear 
The  great  waves  sigh,  "  Ah,  me  !" 

There's  a  Harper  good  in  the  great  old  wood, 

And  a  mighty  ode  sings  he  ; 
To  his  harp  he  sings  with  its  thousand  strings, 

And  the  burden  is,  "  Ah,  me  !" 

A  glorious  sight  are  the  orbs  of  light 

In  Heaven's  wide  azure  sea ; 
Yet  to  our  cry  they  but  reply, 

With  a  long  deep  sigh,  "  Ah,  me  !" 

And  Death  and  Time,  on  their  march  sublime, 

They  will  not  questioned  be ; 
And  the  hosts  they  bore  to  the  dreamless  shore 

Return  no  more,  Ah,  me  ! 


MYSTERY. 


19 


MYSTERY. 


jlffiT  YSTERY  !     Mystery  ! 

d=3§^  All  is  a  mystery  ! 
Mountain  and  valley,  and  woodland  and  stream  ; 

Man's  troubled  history, 

Man's  mortal  destiny, 
Are  but  a  phase  of  the  soul's  troubled  dream. 

Mystery  !     Mystery ! 

All  is  a  mystery  ! 
Heart  throbs  of  anguish  and  joy's  gentle  dew 

Fall  from  a  fountain 

Beyond  the  great  mountain 
Whose  summits  for  ever  are  lost  in  the  blue. 

Mystery !     Mystery ! 

All  is  a  mystery  ! 
The  sigh  of  the  night  winds,  the  song  of  the  waves, 

The  visions  that  borrow 

Their  brightness  from  sorrow, 
The  tales  which  flowers  tell  us,  the  voices  of  graves. 


Mystery  !     Mystery  ! 

All  is  a  mystery  ! 
Ah !  there  is  nothing  we  wholly  see  through  ! 

We  are  all  weary, 

The  night's  long  and  dreary — 
Without  hope  of  morning,  0,  what  would  we  do  ? 


20  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


WHO  .KNOWS? 

tHE  night  was  dark  and  the  winds  were  out, 
And  the  stars  hid  in  the  sky, 
And  the  mousing  owl  too-hoo'd  aloud 

At  the  wan  moon  rushing  by  ; 
And  there  I  sat  in  my  lonely  room, 

With  the  children  all  asleep  ; 
Ah  !  there  they  lay  in  their  dreams  at  play, 
While  I  sat  with  my  sorrows  deep. 

I  ponder' d  long  on  this  weary  life, 

And  I  cried  "  Are  we  what  we  seem  ; 
Or  sail  we  here  in  a  phantom  ship, 

In  search  of  a  vanished  dream  ? 
From  deep  to  deep,  from  doubt  to  doubt, 

While  the  night  still  deeper  grows ; 
Who  knows  the  meaning  of  this  life  ?" 

When  a  voice  replied,  "  Who  Knows  f 

"  Shall  it  always  be  a  mystery  ? 
Are  there  none  to  lift  the  veil  ? 
Knows  no  one  aught  of  the  land  we  left, 

Or  the  port  to  which  we  sail  ? 
Poor  shipwrecked  mariners,  driven  about 

By  every  wind  that  blows  : 
Is  there  a  haven  of  rest  at  all  ?" 
And  the  voice  replied,  "  Who  Knows  V 

O,  why  have  we  longings  infinite, 

And  affections  deep  and  high, 
And  glorious  dreams  of  immortal  things, 

If  they  are  but  born  to  die  ? 
Are  they  but  will-o'- wisps,  that  gle;tm 

Where  the  deadly  night-shade  grows ; 
Do  they  end  in  dust  and  ashes  all  ?" 

And  the  voice  still  cried,  "  Who  Knows  T 


WHO  KNOWS?  21 


And  its  hopeless  tones  fell  on  my  heart 

Like  a  dark  and  heavy  cloud, 
While  the  great  horn'd  moon  looked  down  on  me 

In  teiTor  from  its  shroud. 
And  it  plainly  said,  "Ye  are  orphans  all ; 

Is  there  no  balm  for  your  woes  ?" 
While  the  screech-owl  cried  and  the  night  wind  sighed, 

Alas  !  alas  !  "  Who  Knows  f 

I  prayed  for  light  through  that  weary  night, 

And  I  question'd  saint  and  seer ; 
But  the  demon  Doubt  put  all  to  rout, 

And  kept  ringing  in  mine  ear 
"  Your  life's  a  trance  and  a  spectral  dance, 

And  round  and  round  ye  go ; 
Ye  are  poor  ghosts  all  at  a  spectral  ball, 

And  that  is  the  most  ye  know. 

"  Ye  dance  and  sing  in  your  spectral  ring, 

Tho'  affrighted  Nature  raves 
Tho'  the  screech-owls  cry  and  the  night  winds  sigh, 

And  the  dead  turn  in  their  graves. 
Ye  come  like  thought,  and  ye  pass  to  nought, 

And  what  is  surprising  most, 
"Mid  your  ghostly  fun  there  is  hardly  one 

That  believes  himself  a  ghost. 

"  0,  thought  is  sad,  it  would  make  you  mad  ; 

It  is  folly  to  weep  and  rave  ; 
So  follow  Mirth  around  the  earth, 

For  there's  nought  beyond  the  grave. 
Your  hearts  would  sink  if  ye  dared  to  think, 

So  ye  dance  with  Death  at  the  ball ; 
And  round  ye  go  till  the  cock  shall  crow, 

And  that  is  the  end  of  all." 


22  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

WE'RE  ALL  AFLOAT. 

N^jy  E'RE  all  afloat  in  a  leaky  boat, 

^^j*        On  Time's  tempestuous  sea ; 
Death  at  the  helm  steers  for  his  realm, 

And  a  motley  crew  are  we. 
Through  waters  wide  on  every  side, 

Away  to  the  sunken  shoals, 
He  steers  us  o'er  to  the  Passion's  roar, 

And  the  heave  of  living  souls. 

We  hear  the  splash  and  the  heavy  dash, 

And  the  weary,  weary  moan, 
And  only  know  we  embarked  in  woe, 

And  are  bound  for  the  great  unknown  : 
Some  telling  tales  of  happy  vales 

That  lie  beyond  the  gloom, 
While  Greed  and  Spite  are  at  their  fight 

For  another  inch  of  room. 

And  Fraud  and  Pride  how  they  push  aside 

The  weak  ones  and  the  old, 
While  curses  deep  from  the  mad  hearts  leap 

That  they've  huddled  in  the  hold. 
'Tis  sad  to  hear,  'mid  the  tempest  drear, 

How  the  selfish  crew  go  on ; 
How  they  curse  and  swear  and  snarl  there, 

As  dogs  do  o'er  a  bone. 

Anon,  as  a  brief  but  sweet  relief, 

In  the  midst  of  the  fighting  throng, 
Some  poor  waif  starts  to  cheer  our  hearts 

With  the  blessed  voice  of  song ; 
He  sings  of  Peace  and  the  heart's  increase 

When  Love  o'er  the  crew  shall  reign  ; 
And  the  rudest  hear  with  a  willing  ear, 

And  each  heart  cries  out  "  Amen." 


SONG.  23 

SONG. 

J  I  'M  sad,  my  love — oh  sing  !  oh  sing ! 
:>     And  remove  this  heavy  pall, 
For  Song  is  the  only  sacred  thing 
That  is  left  us  since  the  fall.  4 

Ah  !  yes,  'tis  the  very  breath  of  life, 

And  the  light  of  all  our  day  ; 
It  stirs  the  soul  like  the  Spartan  fife, 

And  charms  the  fiends  away. 

For  oh  !  ere  the  voice  of  song  was  heard 

The  world  was  all  ajar, 
But  the  pitying  Heavens  sent  the  bard, 

And  confusion  fled  afar. 

And  while  Desolation  grimly  sat, 

And  mumbled  the  mouldering  bones, 

At  her  feet  sprang  trees  all  dropping  fat, 
And  a  soul  in  the  very  stones. 

And  the  wild  beasts  of  the  forest  came 

And  lowed  in  the  peaceful  dell, 
And  the  herds  of  savage  men  grew  tame, 

Entranced  by  her  magic  spell. 

And  the  Mountains  sang  "  Rejoice  !  rejoice  !" 

To  the  forests  r>f  the  dell, 
And  awful  Ocean  heaved  her  voice 

In  the  mighty  choral  swell. 

And  Echo  heard  in  her  cave  confined, 

And  she  would  the  strain  prolong, 
Till  universal  Nature  joined 

In  the  swelling  sea  of  song. 

I'm  sad,  my  love — oh  sing  !  oh  sing  ! 

And  remove  this  heavy  pall, 
For  Song  is  the  only  magic  thing 

That  is  left  us  since  the  fall. 


24  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


MAN. 


J3S.0M.E  forth,  ye  wise  ones — ye  who  can 
^%    Decipher  Nature's  mystic  plan — 
Come  sound  me  but  the  depths  of  man. 

What  am  I,  and  whence  have  I  come  ? 
No  answer,  save  a  dreary  hum — 
Oh!  why,  ye  wise  ones,  are  ye  dumb  ? 

What  is  this  house  in  which  I  dwell  ? 
Alas  !  alas  !  there's  none  can  tell ; 
O,  Nature  keeps  her  secret  well ! 

And  all  I  hear,  and  touch,  and  see, 
Time,  and  creation,  are  to  me 
A  marvel  and  a  mystery ! 

Great  Ruler  of  the  earth  and  sky  ! 
0,  from  my  spirit's  depths  I  cry, 
Almighty  Father,  "  What  ami?" 

And  what  is  all  this  world  I  see  ? 
Is  it  what  it  appears  to  be, 
An  awful,  stern  reality  ? 

And  are  these  men  that  come  and  go, 
Or  but  the  shades  of  Joy  and  Woe, 
All  flitting  through  this  vale  below  ? 

And  what  is  Time,  with  all  her  cares, 
Her  wrinkles,  furrows,  and  grey  hairs, 
The  hag  that  swallows  all  she  bears  ; 


MAN.  25 

The  mystic  where,  the  when  and  how, 

The  awful,  everlasting  now, 

The  funeral  wreath  upon  my  brow  ? 

And  for  what  purpose  am  I  here, 
A  stranger  in  an  unknown  sphere 
A  thing  of  doubt,  of  hope  and  fear ; 

A  waif  on  time  all  tempest-toss'd, 
A  stranger  on  an  unknown  coast, 
A  weary,  wand'ring,  wond'ring  ghost  ? 

Did'st  Thou  not,  Father,  shape  my  course  ? 

Or  am  I  but  a  causeless  force — 

A  stream  that  issues  from  no  source  ? 

Ah,  no  !  within  myself  I  see 
An  endless  realm  of  mystery 
A  great,  a  vast  infinity  ! 

A  house  of  flesh,  a  frail  abode, 
Where  dwell  the  demon  and  the  god, 
A  soaring  seraph  and  a  clod — 

The  hall  of  the  celestial  Nine, 

The  filthy  stye  of  grovelling  swine, 

The  animal  and  the  divine ; 

Creation's  puzzle !  false  and  true, 
The  light  and  dark,  the  old  and  new, 
The  slave,  and  yet  the  sovereign  too. 

Angel  and  demon,  Nero,  Paul, 
And  creeping  things  upon  the  wall, 
I  am  the  brother  of  them  all. 


26  M1WELLANE0UK  POEMS. 


A  part  of  all  things  !  first  and  last, 
Linked  to  the  future  and  the  past, 
At  my  own  soul  I  glare  aghast. 

A  spark  from  the  eternal  caught, 
A  living,  loving  thing  of  thought, 
A  miracle  in  me  is  wrought ! 

A  being  that  can  never  die, 

More  wonderful  than  earth  and  sky, 

A  terror  to  myself  am  I. 

My  spirit's  sweep  shall  have  no  bound, 
O,  I  shall  sail  the  deep  profound, 
A  terror,  with  a  glory  crown'd  ! 

And  from  this  dust  and  demon  free, 
All  glorified,  these  eyes  shall  see 
The  All  in  All  eternaUy. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SUN.  27 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SUN. 


ft/n  HO'LL  sing  the  song  of  the  starry  throng, 
The  song  of  the  Sun  and  Sky  ? 
The  angels  bright  on  their  thrones  of  light, 

Not  a  mortal  such  as  I. 
How  vast,  how  deep,  how  infinite  I 

Are  the  wonders  spread  abroad 
On  the  outward  walls  of  the  azure  halls 
Of  the  city  of  our  God. 

Men  seldom  look  on  the  marvellous  book 

Which  God  writes  on  the  sky, 
But  they  cry  for  food  as  the  only  good, 

Like  the  beasts  which  eat  and  die. 
Awake  !  and  gaze  on  the  glorious  maze  ! 

For  every  day  and  night, 
God  paints  on  air  those  pictures  rare, 

To  thrill  us  with  delight. 

O,  come  with  me  !  0,  let  us  flee 

Across  the  dewy  lawn, 
And  see  unrolled  in  realms  of  fjold 

The  glories  of  the  dawn. 
Behold  she  streaks  the  mountain  peaks 

With  the  faintest  tinge  of  gray, 
But  the  glory  hies,  and  the  mists  arise, 

And  the  shadows  flee  away. 

The  stars  rush  buck  from  the  conqueror's  track, 
And  the  night  away  is  driven, 


28  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

While  the  King  of  Day  mounts  on  his  way 
Through  the  golden  gates  of  Heaven, 

And  his  heralds  fly  athwart  the  sky 
With  a  lovely  rainbow  hue, 

Or  hang  around  the  deeps  profound  ! 
The  unfathoraed  gulfs  of  blue. 


The  great  vault  reels  'neath  his  chariot  wheels, 

And  the  thunder-clouds  are  riven, 
'Til  they  expire  in  crimson  fire 

On  the  burning  floor  of  Heaven. 
And  then,  0  then  !  every  hill  and  glen, 

Every  peak  and  mountain  old, 
With  a  diadem  of  glory  swims 

In  a  living  sea  of  gold. 


With  his  gorgeous  train,  through  the  blue  domain 

He  rushes  on  and  on, 
'Til  with  a  round  of  glor}r  crowned 

He  mounts  his  noonday  throne. 
Then  his  burning  beams  with  their  golden  gleams, 

He  scatters  in  showers  abroad, 
'Til  we  cannot  gaze  on  the  glorious  blaze 

Of  the  garments  of  the  god. 


Then  from  his  throne,  with  an  azure  zone, 

The  conqueror  descends, 
And  in  robes  of  white,  through  realms  of  light. 

His  downward  course  he  bends. 
'Mid  great  white  domes,  like  the  happy  homes 

Of  the  ransomed  souls  at  rest, 
Whose  work  is  done,  whose  crowns  are  won, 

And  they  dwell  among  the  blest. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SUN.  29 


How  calm,  how  still,  how  beautiful  ! 

The  very  soul  of  peace 
Seems  breathing  there  her  secret  prayer 

That  strife  and  sin  may  cease. 
Then  in  the  west  he  sinks  to  rest 

Far  down  in  his  ocean  bed  ; 
And  he  disappears,  amid  evening's  tears, 

With  a  halo  on  his  head. 


But  I  cannot  write  of  the  marvellous  sightl 

At  his  setting  last  I  saw  ; 
I  can  only  feel,  I  can  only  kneel, 

With  a  trembling  fearing  and  awe. 
Who'll  sing  the  song  of  the  starry  throng, 

The  song  of  the  Sun  and  Sky  ? 
The  angels  bright  on  their  thrones  of  light, 

Not  a  mortal  such  as  I. 


30  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


IDEAL. 


C2^ 

'M  lord  of  a  realm  ideal, 


(^     And  I  love  to  steal  away 

From  all  the  things  which  fret  us  here 

In  this  weary  house  of  clay. 
When  all  my  sins  and  follies 

In  judgment  'gainst  me  rise, 
And  I  dare  not  seek  a  refuge 

In  the  common  court  of  lies. 
When  I'm  weary  of  all  this  world, 

When  the  woe  will  not  depart, 
I  flee  to  the  living  streams  that  sing 

Through  those  regions  of  the  heart. 

When  I  hear  some  ancient  ballad, 

Some  old-world  weary  air, 
On  the  wings  of  that  old  melody, 

In  a  moment  I  am  there. 
Away  in  the  realms  transcendent, 

Where  all  lovely  forms  have  birth, 
And  the  glorious  things  we  see  in  dreams, 

But  never  can  find  on  earth. 
Where  the  flowers  are  always  blooming, 

And  the  streams  are  never  dry, 
Where  friendship  knows  no  blighting, 

And  our  dear  ones  never  die. 

Where  hope  keeps  all  her  promises, 
And  there's  no  one  sighs  "  Ah  me," 

O'er  glorious  things  which  might  have  been, 
But  were  destined  not  to  be. 


IDEAL.  31 

Where  worth  is  always  welcome, 

Where  no  Homer  begs  his  bread, 
Where  no  Kossuth  is  in  exile, 

With  a  price  upon  his  head. 
Where  no  son  of  song  or  of  science, 

Is  scorned  by  the  fools  he'd  save ; 
Where  no  great  heart,  in  its  misery, 

Creeps  into  a  nameless  grave. 

And  there  I  meet  with  the  humble  souls, 

That  on  earth  bore  a  heavy  load  ; 
Yet  soared  sublime  o'er  the  woes  of  time, 

By  implicit  faith  in  God. 
I  meet  with  the  mighty  spirits 

W"ho  righted  humanity's  wrongs, 
And  the  Hebrew  bards  and  prophets, 

Who  sung  the  immortal  sono-s. 
I  talk  with  the  orators  of  old, 

And,  in  listening  to  their  tones, 
I  feel  how  they  thrilled  the  souls  of  men, 

And  roused  up  the  very  stones. 

With  the  old  world's  hoary  sages, 

I  have  converse  deep  and  high, 
While  we  drink  the  immortal  nectar, 

From  founts  that  are  never  dry. 
And  we  pledge  the  young  immortals 

Of  every  creed  and  clime, 
Who  toil  below,  amid  want  and  woe, 

To  hasten  earth's  happy  time. 
And  we  sing  the  songs  supernal, 

And  we  shout  for  joy  to  sec 
Things  not  as  we  find  them  here  on  earth, 

But  things  as  they  ought  to  be. 


32  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


WOMAN. 

HEN  my  gloomy  hour  comes  on  me, 
And  I  shun  the  face  of  man, 
Finding  bitterness  in  all  things, 
As  vex'd  spirits  only  can  : 

When  of  all  the  world  I'm  weary, 
Then  some  gentle  woman's  face, 

Coming  like  a  blessed  vision, 
Reconciles  me  to  our  race. 

All  the  children  of  affliction, 

All  the  weary  and  oppress'd, 
Flee  to  thee,  beloved  woman, 

Finding  shelter  in  thy  breast. 

While  we  follow  mad  ambition, 

Thine  is  far  the  nobler  part ; 
Nursing  flowers  of  sweet  affection 

In  the  valleys  of  the  heart, 

Man  can  look  and  laugh  at  danger, 

Mighty  with  the  sword  is  he  ; 
But  he  cannot  love,  and  suffer, 

Pity,  and  forgive,  like  thee. 

Blessed  ministers  of  mercy  ! 

Hov'ring  round  the  dying  bed, 
Come  to  cheer  the  broken-hearted, 

To  support  the  drooping  head. 


WOMAN.  33 


Oh,  my  blessings  be  upon  you, 
For,  beneath  yon  weary  sky, 

Ye  are  ever  bringing  comfort 
Unto  sinners  such  as  I. 


When  the  saints  have  but  upbraidings 
For  the  guilty,  erring  man, 

Ye  speak  words  of  hope  and  mercy, 
As  dear  woman  only  can. 

When  my  weary  journey's  ending  ; 

When  my  troubl'd  spirit  flies, 
May  a  woman  smooth  my  pillow, 

May  a  woman  close  my  eyes. 


34  MISt  'ELLA  NEO I  rS  POEMS. 


WE  LIVE  IN  A  RICKETY  HOUSE. 


}Yw/  E  live  in  a  rickety  house, 
Xcr         Iu  a  dirty  dismal  street, 
Where  the  naked  hide  from  day, 
And  thieves  and  drunkards  meet. 

And  pious  folks,  with  their  tracts, 
When  our  dens  they  enter  in, 

They  point  to  our  shirtless  backs, 
As  the  fruits  of  beer  and  gin. 

And  they  quote  us  texts,  to  prove 
That  our  hearts  are  hard  as  stone ; 

And  they  feed  us  with  the  fact, 
That  the  fault  is  all  our  own. 

And  the  parson  comes  and  prays — 
He's  very  concerned  'bout  our  souls  ; 

But  he  never  asks,  in  the  coldest  days, 
How  we  may  be  off  for  coals, 

It  will  be  long  ere  the  poor 
Will  learn  their  grog  to  shun  ; 

While  it's  raiment,  food  and  fire, 
And  religion  all  in  one. 

I  wonder  some  pious  folks 

Can  look  us  straight  in  the  face, 

For  our  ignorance  and  crime 

Are  the  Church's  shame  and  disgrace. 

We  live  in  a  rickety  house, 

In  a  dirty  dismal  street, 
Where  the  naked  hide  from  day, 

And  thieves  and  drunkards  meet. 


DA  VID,  KING  OF  ISRAEL. 


35 


DAVID,  KING  OF  ISRAEL. 


i2.0ME  and  look  upon  this  picture, 
Thoughtfully  those  features  scan, 
There  he  sits,  the  bard  of  Scripture, 
Not  an  angel,  but  a  man. 

In  his  hand,  the  harp  that  often 

Thrilled  the  shepherd  in  the  glen, 
And  has  now  supreme  dominion 
O'er  the  hearts  and  souls  of  men. 

That  same  harp  which  charmed  the  demon 

In  the  darkened  soul  of  Saul ; 
And  has  soothed  the  troubled  spirit 

In  the  bosoms  of  us  all. 

Human  nature's  strength  and  weakness, 
Hope  and  heart-break,  smiles  and  sighs  ; 

What  a  world  of  joy  and  sorrows 
Mirrored  in  those  deep  blue  eyes. 

'Tis  a  face  that,  somehow,  tells  us 

God  has  made  us  all  the  same, 
Of  one  blood,  and  heart  and  nature, 

Differing  but  in  creed  and  name. 

All  that  has  been  done  or  suffer'd, 
All  that  has  been  thought  or  said, 

Israel's  strength,  and  Israel's  weakness, 
Summed  up  in  that  lordly  head. 

Yet,  curtail'd,  hemm'd  in  and  hamper'd, 

He  could  only  utter  part 
Of  the  great  infinite  message, 

That  was  lying  on  his  heart. 


36 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Tis  a  face  supremely  human, 

Brother  to  us,  every  one, 
For  he  oft  has  sinned  and  sorrowed, 

Just  as  you  and  I  have  done. 

Yes,  it  tells  a  tale  of  struggle, 

Of  a  life-long  weary  fight, 
Wrestling  with  foes  all  the  day  long, 

And  with  phantoms  all  the  night. 

Fighting  with  infatuation; 

Scorning  the  degrading  chain  ; 
Hating  sin,  yet  rushing  to  it, 

Rising  but  to  fall  again. 

Always  sinning  and  repenting, 

Promising  to  sin  no  more  ; 
Now  resisting,  now  consenting, 

Human  to  the  very  core. 

Now  he  deems  himself  forsaken, 
Feels  that  he's  a  poor  outcast; 

But  tho'  he  should  die  despairing, 
He  will  struggle  to  the  last. 

He  has  felt  the  soul's  upbraiding ; 

Conscience  oft  has  made  him  smart, 
Until  pain,  and  shame,  and  sorrow 
Leapt  in  lyrics  from  his  heart. 

From  the  depth  of  his  affliction, 

To  the  Father  he  would  cry, 
Who,  in  love  and  pity,  raised  him, 

Set  him  on  a  rock  on  high. 

Gave  him  gleams  of  worlds  transcendent, 
Brighter  than  the  rainbow's  rim  ; 

Touched  his  harpstrings  with  the  raptures 
Of  the  soaring  seraphim. 


DA  VII),  KING  OF  ISRAEL.  37 

Like  the  mighty  waters  gushing, 

Is  the  torrent  of  his  song ; 
Sweeping  onward,  roaring,  rushing, 

Bearing  human4iearts  along. 

Then  anon,  like  gentle  dew-drops, 

Falls  that  spirit — sweet,  serene, 
Peaceful  as  the  quiet  waters, 

Fragrant  as  the  glades  of  green. 

Then  what  living  gusts  of  gladness 

Startle  the  enraptured  ear, 
While  a  tone  of  human  sadness 

Makes  the  sweetest  strain  more  dear. 

Not  the  rapt  and  holy  prophet, 

Not  the  pure  in  every  part, 
But  the  sinning,  sorrowing  creature, 

Was  the  "Man  of  God's  own  heart." 

0,  'twas  love  surpassing  tender, 

And  God  gave  it  as  a  sign, 
That  the  heart  that  is  most  human, 

Is  the  heart  that's  most  divine. 


38  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


ROBERT  BJTRNS. 

.ptLJAIL  to  thee,  King  of  Scottish  song, 
C^j-/-  With  all  thy  faults  we  love  thee, 
Nor  would  we  set  up  modern  saints 

For  all  their  cant,  above  thee. 
There  hangs  a  grandeur  and  a  gloom 

Around  thy  wondrous  story, 
As  of  the  sun  eclipsed  at  noon, 

'Mid  all  his  beams  of  glory. 

A  marvel,  and  a  mystery  ! 

A  king  set  on  a  throne, 
To  guide  the  people's  steps  aright, 

Yet  cannot  guide  his  own. 
A  marvel,  and  a  mystery  ! 

A  strange,  a  wondrous  birth  ; 
Since  Israel's  king  there  has  not  been 

Thy  likeness  upon  earth. 

For  thou  wert  the  ordained  of  Heaven, 

Thy  mission's  high  and  holy ; 
To  thee,  the  noble  work  was  given, 

To  lift  the  poor  and  lowly. 
Thy  words  are  living  vocal  things, 

Around  the  world  they're  ringing  ; 
Hope's  smiles,  they  bear,  and  everywhere 

Set  weary  hearts  a  singing. 

Untutor'd  child  of  nature  wild, 
Whose  instinct's  always  true  ; 

O,  when  I'm  weary  of  the  saints, 
I  turn  with  jov  to  you. 


ROBERT  BURNS.  39 


The  bigot  and  the  blockhead  still 

Are  at  thy  memory  railing, 
Because  thou  wert  a  son  of  Eve, 

And  had  a  human  failing. 

A  benefactor  of  our  race, 

Yet  on  the  face  they  strike  thee ; 
And  like  the  Pharisee  of  old, 

Thank  God  they  are  not  like  thee. 
Well,  let  them  rave  above  thy  grave, 

Thou  canst  not  hear  their  railings  : 
We  take  thee  to  our  heart  of  hearts, 

With  all  thy  faults  and  failings. 

For  they  were  human  at  the  worst 

True  hearts  can  but  deplore  them  ; 
The  faults  from  which  great  virtues  spring, 

0,  throw  a  mantle  o'er  them  ! 
And  loving  souls  in  every  place, 

Still  hail  thee  as  a  brother  ; 
Like  thee,  thou  glory  of  our  race, 

Where  shall  we  find  another  ? 


40  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


UP  AND  BE  A  HERO. 


TyTP  niy  friend,  be  bold  and  true, 
Xzq  There  is  noble  work  to  do, 
Hear  the  voice  which  calls  on  you, 
"  Up,  and  be  a  hero  !" 

What,  tho'  fate  has  fixed  thy  lot, 

To  the  lowly  russet  cot ; 

Tho'  thou  art  not  worth  a  groat, 

Thou  may  est  be  a  hero  ! 

High  heroic  deeds  are  done, 
Many  a  battle's  lost  or  won, 
Without  either  sword  or  gun, 

Up,  and  be  a  hero  ! 

Not  to  gain  a  worldly  height, 
Not  for  sensual  delight, 
But  for  very  love  of  right, 

Up,  and  be  a  hero  ! 

Follow  not  the  worldling's  creed, 
Be  an  honest  man  indeed, 
God  will  help  thee  in  thy  need, 

Only  be  a  hero  ! 

There  is  seed  which  must  be  sown, 
Mighty  truths  to  be  made  known, 
Tyrannies  to  be  o'erthrown, 

U  p,  and  be  a  hero  ! 


UP  AND  BE  A  HERO:  41 


There  are  hatreds  and  suspicions, 
There  are  social  inquisitions, 
Worse  than  ancient  superstitions, 

Strike  them  like  a  hero  ! 

In  the  mighty  fields  of  thought, 
There  are  battles  to  be  fought, 
Revolutions  to  be  wrought, 

Up,  and  be  a  hero  ! 

Bloodless  battles  to  be  gained, 
Spirits  to  be  disenchained, 
Holy  heights  to  be  attained. 

Up,  and  be  a  hero  ! 

To  the  noble  soul  alone, 
Nature's  mystic  art  is  shown, 
God  will  make  His  secrets  known, 

Only  to  the  hero  ! 

If  thou  only  art  but  true, 
What  may  not  thy  spirit  do, 
All  is  possible  to  you, 

Only  be  a  hero  ! 


42  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


INFINITE. 

PART  I. 

■ 

fNBAR  the  gates  of  eye  and  ear, 
Lo,  what  a  wondrous  world  is  here, 
Marvels  on  marvels  still  appear 

Infinite  ! 

Great  mother  !  by  whose  breast  we're  fed, 
With  thy  green  mantle  round  thee  spread, 
The  blue  vault  hanging  o'er  thy  head, 

Infinite ' 

Why  wert  thou  into  being  brought  ? 

How  were  thy  forms  of  beauty  wrought  ? 

Thou  great  upheaval  of  a  thought, 

Infinite  ! 

Which  scooped  the  vales  where  dew  distils, 
Which  led  the  courses  of  the  rills, 
And  fixed  the  everlasting  hills, 

Infinite  ! 

Which  called  from  darkness  bright-eyed  day, 

Baptized  it  with  a  heavenly  ray, 

And  sent  it  on  its  endless  way, 

Infinite  ! 

Ye  waves  that  lash  the  hoary  steep, 

Ye  mighty  winds  with  boundless  sweep, 

Great  coursers  of  the  trackless  deep, 

Infinite  ! 

And  you,  ye  streamlets  on  your  way, 

Tho'  laughing  all  the  summer's  day, 

Ye  only  sing,  ye  only  say 

Infinite  ! 


INFINITE.  43 


Sweet  linnet  singing  on  the  lea, 
Wild  lark  in  heaven's  wide  azure  sea, 
The  burden  of  your  strain's  to  me, 

Infinite 
Loved  violets  'neath  my  feet  that  lie, 
Sweet  harebells,  can  you  tell  me  why 
Your  beauty  only  makes  me  sigh  ? 

Infinite  ! 
Thou  wild  rose  blooming  on  the  tree, 
Ye  daisies  laughing  on  the  lee, 
Sweet  flowers  your  message  is  to  me, 

Infinite  ! 
This  dust's  to  spirit  strangely  wed, 
'Tis  haunted  ground  on  which  we  tread, 
The  living,  stranger  than  the  dead, 


Infinite  ! 


A  presence  fills  the  earth  and  air, 
Bends  o'er  us  when  we're  not  aware, 
And  eyes  look  on  us  everywhere. 

Earth,  ocean,  air,  heaven's  azure  sea  ! 
Oh,  ye  have  always  been  to  me 
A  marvel  and  a  mystery  ! 


Infinite 


Infinite  .' 


PART   II. 

fNBAR  the  gates  of  eye  and  ear, 
Lo  !  what  a  mystic  world  is  here, 
The  heights  of  hope,  the  depths  of  fear, 

Infinite 

Ye  wise  ones,,  can  ye  tell  me  nought 

About  this  maiiic  web  of  thought 

Or  of  the  loom  on  which  'tis  wrought  ? 

Infinite 


44  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Ye  strange,  ye  sacred  human  ties, 

A  mighty  marvel  in  you  lies, 

A  wondrous  world  of  tears  and  sighs, 

Infinite  ! 

This  human  love,  so  deep,  so  vast ; 
Ye  sympathies  which  run  so  fast, 
And  bind  the  future  with  the  past, 

.  Infinite  ! 

Ye  magic  cords,  where  were  ye  spun  ? 
Ye  strange  affinities  that  run, 
And  warp  the  mystic  web  in  one, 

Infinite  ! 

Love's  sacred  fires,  Grief's  burning  tears, 
Faith's  holy  hope,  and  Doubt's  dark  fears, 
Spring  from  a  fount  beyond  the  spheres, 

Infinite  ! 

But,  who  the  secret  clue  can  find 
Of  all  the  avenues  which  wind 
Up  to  thy  throne,  immortal  mind  ? 

Infinite  ! 

In  the  soul's  presence  who  are  great  ? 
The  wisest  ones  can  but  translate 
Some  passing  look,  some  word  of  Fate, 

Infinite  ! 

Who'll  take  the  measure,  or  the  bound  ? 
No  line  of  ours  can  ever  sound 
The  fathomless,  the  great  profound, 

Infinite  ! 

0,  were  I  but  from  self  set  free  ! 

The  spirit  then  might  speak  through  me, 

Of  all  this  deep  unfathomed  sea, 

Infinite ! 


WILSON'S  GRAVE.  45 


WILSON'S    GRAVE. 

[Alexander  Wilson,  the  Scottish  Poet  and  American  Ornithologist, 
is  buried  in  the  Cemetery  of  the  Swedish  Church,  Southwark,  Phila- 
delphia. The  Navy-yard  refreshment-rooms  and  a  wharf  are  within  a 
hundred  yards  of  his  grave.  "  Had  I  been  at  home  when  he  died," 
said  his  friend  George  Ord,  "  I  would  have  selected  some  quiet  spot 
in  the  country,  retired  from  the  city,  where  the  birds  would  have 
warbled  over  his  grave.  Such  a  spot  as  he  himself  would  have  pre- 
ferred."] 

tHEY  should  not  have  buried  thee  here  ! 
0'!  they  should  have  made  thee  a  bed, 
Where  the  flowers  at  thy  feet  would  appear, 
And  the  birds  would  sing  over  thy  head. 

4  0  !  They  should  have  laid  thee  to  rest, 
From  the  smoke  of  the  city,  away 
Where  the  dew  would  fall  bright  on  thy  breast, 
And  the  green  turf  would  cover  thy  clay. 

Afar  in  the  forest's  green  shade, 

The  tall  pine  above  thee  should  wave, 

Where  the  "  Blue-bird  "  would  perch  o'er  thy  head, 
And  the  "  Whip-poor- Will  "  sit  on  thy  grave. 

Where  Spring  would  come  forth  &ith  her  smiles, 
And  the  birds  that  to  thee  were  so  dear ; 

And  sing  'mong  the  green  leafy  aisles, 
The  songs  vou  delighted  to  hear. 

And  the  red  man  would  marvel  to  meet 

A  grave  in  the  green  forest  shade  ; 
And  the  hunter  at  evening  would  sit, 

And  weep  where  thine  ashes  are  laid. 

They  should  not  have  buried  thee  here, 
For  the  forest  above  thee  should  wave. 

But  have  borne  thee  away  on  thy  bier, 

Where  the  birds  would  sing  over  thy  grave. 


46  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


NAPOLEON  ON  ST.  HELENA. 

Jp^J  E  stands  alone  on  a  desolate  rock, 
<^~      With  the  watery  waste  around  him ; 
For  the  slaves  of  Fate  and  the  hounds  of  Hate, 
To  this  lonely  rock  have  bound  him. 

No  sail  appears  on  the  watery  way, 

He  sees  but  the  sea-mew  flying  ; 
He  hears  but  the  wave,  as  it  moans  round  this  grave, 

And  hope  in  his  heart  is  dying. 

He  has  folded  his  arms  upon  his  breast, 

His  eye's  on  the  sun  descending, 
With  dark  clouds  o'ercast,  it  is  sinking  at  last, 
Like  his  glory  in  darkness  ending. 

And  he  thinks  of  the  Sun  of  Austerlitz, 

That  rose,  and  that  set  in  glory ; 
And  there  gleams  out  a  brief  lonely  joy  'mid  his  grief, 

For  his  name  shall  live  in  story. 

And  over  that  brow  that  was  so  serene, 
Tho'  the  death  shower  was  descending, 

A  dark  cloud  has  past,  for  like  that  sun  at  last, 
His  glory  is  gloomily  ending. 

The  sword  of  Marengo  must  rust  in  its  sheath, 
And  that  soul  of  ambition  unbounded 

Must  fret  itself  here,  on  this  peak  lone  and  drear : 
This  rock  with  the  ocean  surrounded. 


NAPOLEON  ON  ST.  HELENA.  47 

And  he  mutters,  "  Of  kingdoms  and  crowns, 

A  terrible  fate  has  bereft  me ; 
They  have  vanished  like  smoke,  and  to  rule  on  this  rock, 

Not  even  that  boon  has  been  left  me. 

"  Ah  !  where  are  the  voices  that  shouted  so  loud, 

In  the  day  of  mine  exaltation ; 
I  hear  but  the  moan  of  old  ocean  alone, 

Round  the  rock  of  my  desolation. 

"  And  where  are  the  legions  that  leaped  at  my  word  ? 

In  joy,  'mid  the  lightning  and  thunder, 
While  thrones  shook  with  dread,  at  the  sound  of  my  tread, 

And  nations  stood  dumb  in  their  wonder. 

"  Ah,  Ney  !  is  it  thou,  and  Lannes  and  Desaix, 
With  your  legions,  ye  gather  round  me  ? 

Ye  have  come  o'er  the  waves  from  your  lone  bloody  graves, 
To  this  rock  where  the  sea-gods  have  bound  me. 

"  Let  the  bugles  ring  out !  let  the  eagles  advance  ! 

There  shall  be  no  rock,  and  no  main ; 
Leap  into  the  saddle  !  great  hearts,  ye  are  able 

To  bear  me  to  glory  again  ! 

"  See,  Murat  has  broken  the  red  gleaming  ranks, 

And  Junot  is  swooping  down  after  ; 
Ah,  fool !  all  my  hosts  turn  to  legions  of  ghosts, 

And  fade  amid  fiendish  laughter. 

"I  founded  my  kingdom  on  force  and  fraud  ; 

I  built  on  a  sandy  foundation  ; 
O  !  the  love-founded  throne,  that  of  Jesus  alone, 

Shall  smile  at  the  waves  of  mutation." 


48  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


MARTHA. 

<£± 

fN  a  sweet  secluded  nook, 
Down  beside  the  quiet  brook, 
There  an  humble  cabin's  seen 
Peeping  from  the  ivy  green, 
While  a  great  elm  bends  above  it, 
As  it  really  seemed  to  love  it. 
There  old  Martha  lives  alone, 
But  tho'  to  the  world  unknown, 
There's  a  heart  so  truly  human 
In  the  breast  of  that  old  woman  ! 
Oft  I  seek  that  quiet  place, 
Just  to  look  upon  her,  face, 
And  forget  this  scene  of  care, 
Where  men  palter,  curse  and  swear; 
And  the  demons  all  are  rife 
In  the  never-ending  strife 
For  the  vanities  of  life. 

What  a  world  of  love  there  lies 

Mirrored  in  her  deep  blue  eyes  ! 

What  a  ray  of  quiet  beauty 

They  throw  around  each  daily  duty  ! 

How  it  is  I  cannot  tell, 

Yet  I  feel  the  magic  spell 

Of  the  quiet  Sabbath  grace, 

Always  breathing  from  her  face, 

And  her  voice  so  calm  and  clear 

Lifts  me  to  a  higher  sphere, 

And  unlocks  my  spirit's  powers,    - 

Gentle  thoughts  spring  up  like  flowers. 

Gems  deep  hidden  in  my  heart 


MARTHA.  49 


Into  life  and  being  start 

When  that  saintly  face  I  see, 

Heaven  and  immortality 

They  grow  clearer  unto  me. 

She's  acquaint  with  sin  and  sorrow, 

Knows  their  weary  burdens  thorough, 

And  her  hearth  is  the  retreat 

Of  sad  hearts,  and  weary  feet ; 

And  while  others  find  but  flaws, 

Quoting  still  the  moral  laws, 

She  but  thinks  of  what  is  human, 

Loves  them  all,  the  dear  old  woman  ! 

Time,  which  makes  most  heads  but  hoary, 

Changed  hers  to  a  crown  of  glory. 

Many — ah  !  many  a  benediction 

From  the  children  of  affliction, — 

Blessings  from  the  haunts  of  care 

Nestle  mid  the  glory  there ; 

And  she  always  seems  to  me 

An  embodied  prophesy 

Of  a  better  world  to  be. 


50  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


CHANGE. 

,H  !  how  wondrous  are  the  changes 
££&     Every  day  and  hour  we  see ; 
Things  to  make  us  ask  in  wonder, 

"  Wherefore  ?  and  oh  what  are  we  ?" 
Things  more  wonderful  than  fiction, 

Or  the  poet's  wildest  dreams  ; 
Things  enough  to  make  us  question 
If  this  world  is  what  it  seems. 

Change  !  change  !  surpassing  strange  ! 

What  fearful  changes  come  ! 
The  stars  grow  pale,  the  prophets  fail, 
The  oracles  are  dumb. 


Men  come  forth  in  strength  rejoicing, 
And  they  bid  the  world  take  note 
Of  their  comings  and  their  goings, 

And  the  mighty  works  they've  wrought ; 
Deeming  that  they  are  immortal, 

How  like  gods  they  walk  the  scene. 
Time  looks  in,  and  lo  !  they  vanish — 
Rubb'd  out  as  they  ne'er  had  been. 

Change  !  change  !  surpassing  strange  ! 
Their  pomp,  their  power,  and  glory 
Are  all  forgot :  were,  and  are  not — 
The  old  eternal  story. 


Nations  spring  as  'twere  from  nothing, 
And  are  mighty  in  their  day — 

But  to  wax,  and  wane,  and  crumble, 
And  to  nothing  pass  away. 


CHANGE.  51 


Great  Niagai*a  with  his  thunders, 

And  the  towering  Alps  sublime ; 
Earth  and  sky  with  all  their  wonders, 
Bubbles  on  the  flood  of  time. 

Change  !  change  !  surpassing  strange 

Can  such  things  surely  be  ; 
All  hurried  past,  and  lost  at  last 
In  Death's  eternal  sea  ? 


Oh  !  Creation's  but  a  vision 

Seen  by  the  reflective  eye ; 
But  a  panoramic  pageant 

Pictur'd  on  the  evening  sky. 
There  is  nothing  here  abiding — 

There  is  nothing  what  it  seems  ; 
Airy  all,  and  unsubstantial, 

Wavering  in  a  world  of  dreams. 

Change  !  change  !  surpassing  strange  ! 

Is  time's  eternal  chorus ; 
We  hardly  know  the  road  we  go, 
Or  the  heavens  bending  o'er  us. 


Shall  we  give  ourselves  to  pleasure  ? 

Drench  with  wine  the  brow  of  care  ? 
That  were  but  the  coward's  refuge, 

But  a  hiding  from  despair. 
Shall  we  wed  us  to  Ambition, 

Love,  or  Fame's  alluring  round  ? 
Ah,  alas  !  its  promised  glories 
End  but  in  a  grassy  mound. 

Change  !  change  ■  surpassing  strange  ! 

There's  nothing  sure  but  sorrow ; 
And  we  must  bear  our  load  of  care, 
Nor  dream  of  rest  to-morrow. 


52  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Shall  we  put  our  trust  in  knowledge 

Men  have  garner'd  here  below  ? 
Ah  !  the  fruit  of  all  their  labour's 

But  a  heritage  of  woe. 
Oh  !  the  sum  of  all  the  knowledge, 

Garner'd  underneath  the  sky, 
Is  that  we  are  born  to  suffer, 
Is  that  we  are  born  to  die. 

Change  !  change  !  surpassing  strange 

Our  knowledge  comes  to  naught ; 
And  we  are  fooled  and  over-ruled 
By  the  very  things  we  sought. 


THE  WISE  WOMAN.  53 


THE  WISE  WOMAN. 

4|{S?)\  RAW  near,  think  not  my  tale  absurd, 
(^^     For  truth  is  strange,  I  ween ; 
I'll  tell  thee  what  mine  ears  have  heard, 

And  what  mine  eyes  have  seen. 
From  childhood  I  was  void  of  faith 

In  visions,  dreams  and  seers ; 

The  Spirit-World  was  all  a  myth, 

Begot  of  hopes  and  fears. 

But  wandering  through  the  vale  of  Doubt, 

While  all  its  gloom  I  felt, 
At  last  I  sought  the  cottage  out, 

Where  the  wise  woman  dwelt. 
"This is  the  place  at  last,"  I  said, 

"  Where  foolish  people  go  ; 
But  of  the  unreturning  dead 

What  can  the  Sib}d  know  ? 

"  The  future  black  is  all  a  track 

Of  darkness  and  of  doubt ; 
No  ghost  has  ever  yet  come  back 

To  let  the  secret  out. 
We're  travellers  in  a  desert  lone, 

And  only  this  we  know — 
We  issue  from  the  Great  Unknown. 

And  back  to  it  we  go. 

"  From  mysteiy  to  mystery. 
The  fools  of  Hope  and  Doubt, 


54  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

"  We  weave  our  little  history, 
And  then  Death  rubs  us  out ; 

And,  reft  of  our  identity, 
We  can  have  no  hereafter." 

I  paused  in  fear,  for  I  could  hear 
Sounds  as  of  smothered  laughter. 


And,  plainly  as  you  hear  me  now, 

A  voice  pronounced  my  name, 
Told  me  my  thoughts,  and  why,  and  how 

I  to  the  woman  came  ; 
And  there  she  sat  as  still  as  death, 

For  in  a  trance  was  she ; 
And  yet  I  felt  a  living  breath, 

Warm,  breathing  upon  me. 


And  while  along  my  veins  it  stole, 

And  I  was  lost  in  wonder, 
A  light  burst  in  upon  my  soul, 

A  veil  was  rent  asunder, 
And  there  were  knockings  on  the  walls, 

And  whispers  long  and  low, 
And  shadows,  as  through  empty  halls. 

Were  wav'ring  to  and  fro. 


And  I  was  touched  by  hands  unseen, 

When  there  was  no  one  near  ; 
While  secrets  of  the  dead,  I  ween, 

Were  whispered  in  mine  ear. 
And  all  at  once — I  knew  not  how — 

A  heavenly  calm  came  o'er  me ; 
When,  with  a  glory  on  its  brow, 

A  spirit  stood  before  me. 


THE  WISE  WOMAN.  55 


More  beautiful  it  seemed  to  me 

Than  any  of  earth's  sons, 
And  clothed  in  all  the  majesty 

Of  the  immortal  ones. 
That  being — once  of  mortal  breath, 

But  now  a  soul  sublime — 
Stood  there,  the  victor  over  Death 

And  all  the  shocks  of  Time. 

The  Herald  of  th'  Eternal  One  ! 

In  mercy  sent  to  me, 
Demonstrating  beneath  the  sun, 

Man's  immortality. 
And,  lo  !  it  spake :  "  Ye  mortals  make 

Your  own  Heaven  or  your  Hell ; 
Not  by  your  creeds,  but  by  your  deeds, 

Shall  ye  be  judged.     Farewell." 

When  I  essayed  to  question  it 

Of  glories  "  over  there," 
Lo,  it  was  gone  !  and,  all  alone, 

I  talked  to  empty  air. 
But  still  that  spirit  holds  control, 

Still  watches  over  me, 
For  ever  singing  in  my  soul, 

Of  glories  }Tet  to  be. 


56  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


TRADITIONS. 

!j|£rURRAH  !  for  the  great  Diana, 
&-r~     And  whatsoe'er  ye  do, 
Be  sure  to  prop  the  old  up, 
And  sacrifice  the  new. 

Ye  lean  upon  old  traditions, 

To  question  them's  a  sin, 
And  stifle  the  holiest  promptings 

Of  the  God  that  speaks  within. 

Ye  clog  the  soul  of  Nature 

With  your  wretched  little  creeds ; 
Then  hold  up  your  hands  in  wonder, 

At  the  dearth  of  noble  deeds. 

Ye  pray  for  the  gods  to  guide  you, 
Yet,*when  the  God  appears, 

Ye'll  have  no  gods  but  the  old  ones, 
And  pierce  His  side  with  spears. 

Ye  boast  of  your  achievements, 

Your  feats  with  the  tongue  and  pen, 

'Til  the  gods  look  down  in  wonder 
At  the  little  sons  of  men. 

Hurrah  !  for  the  great  Diana, 

And  whatsoe'er  ye  do, 
Be  sure  to  prop  the  old  up, 

And  sacrifice  the  new. 


THE  SEER.  57 


THE  SEER. 

tHE  temple  was  a  ruined  heap, 
With  moss  and  weeds  o'ergrown, 
And  there  the  old  Seer  stood  entranced, 

Beside  the  altar  stone ; 
Time's  broken  hour-glass  at  his  feet, 

In  mouldering  fragments  lay ; 
And  tombstones,  whose  old  epitaphs 
Were  eaten  all  awa}>\ 

He  pointed  ever  and  anon, 

His  eye  fixed  upon  air, 
While  thus  he  talked  to  shadowy  forms, 

Which  seemed  to  hover  there. 


"  On,  on,  to  the  regions  lone, 

The  generations  go ; 
They  march  along  to  the  mingled  song 

Of  hope,  of  joy,  and  woe. 
On,  on,  to  the  regions  lone, 

For  there's  no  tarrying  here, 
And  the  hoary  past  is  joined  at  last, 

By  all  it  held  so  dear. 

"  There,  there,  on  the  edge  of  air, 

How  fleetly  they  do  pass, 
I  see  them  all,  both  great  and  small, 

Like  pictures  in  a  glass. 
Long,  long,  is  the  motley  throng, 

Of  every  creed  and  clime, 
With  the  hopes  and  fears,  the  smiles  and  tears, 

Of  the  young  and  the  olden  time. 


58  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

"  Round,  round,  on  their  earthly  mound, 

The  laden  ages  reel, 
No  creak,  no  sound,  to  the  ceaseless  round, 

Of  Time's  eternal  wheel. 

"  There,  there,  with  their  long  grey  hair, 

Are  the  patriarchs  of  our  race  ; 
A  glory's  shed  on  each  hoary  head, 

As  they  pass  with  solemn  pace ; 
Earth,  earth,  there  were  men  of  worth, 

When  they  were  in  their  prime, 
There  was  less  of  art,  and  more  of  heart, 

In  that  happy  golden  time. 

"  There,  there,  are  the  ladies  fair, 

That  danced  in  the  lordly  hall ; 
.  And  the  minstrel  grey,  whose  simple  lay 

Was  a  joy  to  one  and  all. 
Fleet,  fleet,  were  your  fairy  feet, 

And  ye  knew  the  joy  of  tears, 
While  the  minstrel  wove  the  tale  of  love, 

With  its  hopes,  its  doubts,  and  fears. 

"  There,  there,  still  fresh  and  fair, 

I  see  them  march  along, 
The  bowmen  good,  in  the  gay  green  wood, 

And  I  hear  their  jocund  song. 
See,  see,  how  the  green  oak  tree, 

With  shouts  they  circle  in, 
And  the  stakes  are  set,  and  the  champions  met, 

And  the  merry  games  begin. 

"  Round,  round,  on  their  earthly  mound, 

The  laden  ages  reel, 
No  creak,  no  sound,  to  the  ceaseless  round, 

Of  Time's  eternal  wheel. 


THE  SEER.  59 


"  Hold,  hold  !  Ye  were  barons  bold, 

I  know  by  the  garb  ye  wear, 
The  lofty  head,  and  the  stead}'  tread, 

And  the  trusty  blades  ye  bear ; 
Where,  where,  are  your  mansions  rare, 

And  the  lordly  halls  ye  built ; 
Gone,  gone,  and  how  little's  known 

Of  your  glory  or  your  guilt. 

"  Away,  away,  as  if  to  the  fray, 

Ah,  there  they  madly  rush, 
And  in  their  path  of  woe  and  wrath, 

There's  a  dark  deep  purple  blush  ; 
Here,  here,  like  the  autumn  sere, 

The  hoary  Palmers  come, 
Their  tales  they  tell,  of  what  befell, 

And  the  listening  groups  are  dumb. 

"  Round,  round,  on  their  earthly  mound, 

The  laden  ages  reel, 
No  creak,  no  sound,  to  the  ceaseless  round, 

Of  Time's  eternal  wheel. 

"  Lo  !  Lo  !  what  a  splendid  woe, 

Yon  rearward  host  reveals, 
It  marches  there  with  its  golden  care, 

To  the  sound  of  steam  and  wheels ; 
Speed,  speed,  oh,  Guile  and  Greed, 

Are  surely  a  monstrous  birth, 
Let  wan  Despair  weave  fabrics  rare, 

And  gold  be  the  god  of  earth. 

"  Oh  '  oh  !  what  a  sigh  of  woe, 

Is  from  its  bosom  rolled, 
What  faces  peer  like  winter  drear. 

'Mid  the  glitter  and  the  gold. 


60 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Still,  still,  amid  all  this  ill, 

There  are  souls  with  a  touch  sublime, 
Who  nobly  strive  to  keep  alive, 

The  hope  of  a  happier  time. 

"  Round,  round,  on  their  earthly  mound, 

The  laden  ages  reel, 
No  creak,  no  sound,  to  the  ceaseless  round, 

Of  Time's  eternal  wheel. 


"  Hail !  hail !  to  those  shadows  pale, 

For  they  were  the  men  of  thought ; 
And  the  crags  were  steep,  and  the  mines  were  dee}) 

Where  painfully  they  wrought ; 
Speak  !  speak  !  why  the  secret  keep  ? 

This  mystery  I  would  know. 
Say,  what  is  breath,  and  life  and  death, 

And  whither  do  we  go  ? 

"  Still,  still,  not  a  word  ye  will 

Vouchsafe  to  my  greedy  ear, 
The  crags  are  steep,  and  the  mines  are  deep, 

And  I  can  oidy  hear  : 
On,  on,  every  age  has  gone, 

With  its  burden  on  its  back, 
And  spite  our  will  with  our  good  and  ill, 

We  follow  in  the  track. 


"  Round,  round,  on  their  earthly  mound, 

The  laden  ages  reel, 
No  creak,  no  sound,  to  the  ceaseless  round, 

Of  Time's  eternal  wheel." 


TEE  ANGLO-SAXON. 


61 


THE  ANGLO-SAXON. 

fHE  Anglo-Saxon  leads  the  van, 
And  never  lags  behind, 
For  was  not  he  ordained  to  be 

The  leader  of  mankind  ? 
He  carries  very  little  sail, 
Makes  very  little  show, 
But  gains  the  haven  without  fail, 
Whatever  winds  may  blow. 

He  runs  his  plough  in  every  land, 

He  sails  on  every  sea, 
All  prospers  where  he  has  a  hand, 

For  king  of  men  is  he. 
He  plants  himself  on  Afric's  sand, 

And  'mong  Spitzbergen's  snows, 
For  he  takes  root  in  any  land, 

And  blossoms  like  the  rose. 

Into  the  wilderness  he  goes, 

He  loves  the  wild  and  free, 
The  forests  stagger  'neath  his  blows, 

A  sturdy  man  is  he. 
To  have  a  homestead  of  his  own, 

The  giants  down  he'll  bring — 
His  shanty's  sacred  as  a  throne, 

And  there  he'll  reign  a  king. 


For  let  him  plant  him  where  he  may, 
On  this  you  may  depend,^ 

As  sure  as  worth  will  have  the  sway, 
He's  ruler  in  the  end. 


62  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

For  he  believes  in  thrift,  and  knows 
The  money-making  art, 

But  tho'  in  riches  great  he  grows, 
They  harden  not  his  heart. 

He  never  knows  when  he  is  beat ; 

To  knock  him  down  is  vain, 
He's  sure  to  get  upon  his  feet, 

And  into  it  again. 
If  you're  resolved  to  be  his  foe, 

You'll  find  him  rather  tough, 
But  he'll  not  strike  another  blow 

Whene'er  you  call  "  enough." 

His  is  a  nature  true  as  steel, 

Where  many  virtues  blend, 
A  head  to  think,  a  heart  to  feel, 

A  soul  to  comprehend. 
I  love  to  look  upon  his  face, 

Whate'er  be  his  degree, 
An  honour  to  the  human  race, 

The  king  of  men  is  he. 


WHERE'ER  WE  MAY  WANDER.  63 


'  WHERE'ER  WE  MAY  WANDER. 


y7  HERE'ER  we  may  wander, 
Whate'er  be  our  lot, 
The  heart's  first  affections, 

Still  cling  to  the  spot, 
Where  first  a  fond  mother, 
With  rapture  has  prest, 
Or  sung  us  to  slumber, 
In  peace  on  her  breast. 

Where  love  first  allured  us, 

And  fondly  we  hung 
On  the  magical  music, 

Which  fell  from  her  tongue  ! 
Tho'  wise  ones  may  tell  us, 

'Twas  foolish  and  vain, 
Yet,  when  shall  we  drink  of 

Such  glory  again. 

Where  hope  first  beguiled  us, 

And  spells  o'er  us  cast, 
And  told  us  her  visions, 

Of  beauty  would  last ; 
That  earth  was  an  Eden, 

Untainted  with  guile, 
And  men  were  not  destined 

To  sorrow  and  toil. 

Where  friendship  first  found  us, 

And  gave  us  her  hand, 
And  linked  us  for  aye,  to 

That  beautiful  band. 


64  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Oh,  still  shall  this  heart  be, 
And  cold  as  the  clay, 

Ere  one  of  their  featares, 
Shall  from  it  decay. 

O  fortune,  thy  favours 

Are  empty  and  vain  ; 
Restore  me  the  friends  of 

My  boyhood  again  ; 
The  hearts  that  are  scattered, 

Or  cold  in  the  tomb, 
O  give  me  again,  in 

Their  beauty  and  bloom. 

Away  with  ambition, 

It  brought  me  but  pain, 
0  give  me  the  big  heart 

Of  boyhood  again ; 
The  faith  and  the  friendship, 

The  rapture  of  yore, 
0  shall  they  re-visit 

This  bosom  no  more. 


A  SONG  OF  CHARITY.  65 


A  SONG  OF  CHARITY. 

StOME,  sing  a  song  of  Charity, 
O  may  she  ne'er  forsake  us  ! 
For  good  or  bad,  we're  all  what  God 

And  circumstances  make  us. 
What's  clear  to  me,  is  dim  to  thee, 

Opinions  are  divided  ; 
Tis  hard  to  judge  what's  wholly  fudge, 

For  things  are  many-sided. 

I  hae  a  few  thoughts  o'  mine  ain, 

Wi  nae  ane  would  I  niffer, 
On  sich  points  baith  may  be  mistean, 

So  let's  agree  to  differ, 
And  sing  a  song  of  Charity, 

And  may  she  ne'er  forsake  us, 
For  good  or  bad,  we're  all  what  God 

And  circumstances  make  us. 

Yet  men  will  sigh,  and  wonder  why 

The  bigot's  hither  sent, 
Such  solemn  fools  are  but  the  tools 

To  work  out  God's  intent. 
0  may  we  never  do  them  wrong, 

Such,  still,  has  been  our  prayer, 
For  had  our  lot  been  theirs,  I  wot 

We'd  just  been  such  as  they  are. 

But  tho'  so  mad,  the  wars  we've  had — 
When  Death  shall  send  us  thither — 

For  all  that's  past,  we  hope  at  last 
To  meet  in  light  together. 

Then  sing  a  song  of  Charity, 
And  pray  for  truth  to  aid  us ; 

For  good  or  bad,  we're  all  what  God 
And  circumstances  made  us. 


66 


M ISC  ELLA  NEO  US  POEMS. 


CATHOLIC  MOTHER  AND  CHILD. 


"  0  wad  some  Power  the  giftie  gie  us, 
To  see  ourselves  as  ithers  see  us." 

— Burns. 


CHILD. 

OU  tell  me,  mother,  of  God's  grace, 
Which  doth  so  freely  flow, 
But,  will  it  ever  reach  the  place 
Where  Protestants  do  go  ? 

MOTHER. 

No  doubt  they're  a  rebellious  race, 

And  hard  for  God  to  bear  ; 
And  yet,  I  hope,  redeeming  grace 

May  reach  them  even  there : 
For  God  may  not  be  quite  so  hard 

As  pious  Fathers  say ; 
And  Christ,  for  them,  may  speak  a  word 

Before  the  judgment  day. 

CHILD. 

But  are  they  not  wilfully  blind 

To  what  is  plain  to  see  ? 
I  cannot  comprehend  what  kind 

Of  people  they  can  be. 

MOTHER. 

My  child,  if  God  with  them  can  bear, 
Then  why  should  we  condemn  ? 

There  may  be  some  good  people  there, 
Yes,  even  among  them. 


CATHOLIC  MOTHER  AND  CHILD. 


67 


Like  us,  no  doubt,  they  hope  and  fear, 
And  feel  the  power  of  love  ; 

And  shed  for  human  woe  a  tear, 
And  pray  to  God  above. 


CHILD. 


If  good,  why  hold  they  us  in  spite 
So  terrible  and  strong  ? 

It's  all  because  we're  in  the  right, 
And  they  are  in  the  wrong. 


MOTHER. 


But  they  may  think  that  they  are  right, 

And  I  am  told  they  say 
They  have  the  true  and  only  light, 

And  we  are  all  astray. 


CHILD. 


But  they  might  know  that  is  not  so, 
Would  they  but  choose  to  see ; 

They  will  not  hear  with  willing  ear, 
What  wretches  they  must  be  ! 


MOTHER. 

I  cannot  from  myself  conceal 

The  bad  course  they  pursue, 
But  sometimes  they  must  think  and  feel 

The  very  way  we  do. 
Sometimes  I  think,  if  they  are  good — 

Tho'  they  may  not  repent, 
That  God  may — as  I'm  sure  I  would  ! — 

Have  mercy  and  relent. 


68  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


CHILD. 


But  ah,  they  must  be  wicked,  who 
Would  scorn  the  Virgin  so  ; 

Why  can't  they  do  as  others  do, 
And  to  the  altar  go  ? 


MOTHER. 


No  doubt,  my  child,  they  put  to  shame 

The  Saviour  every  day  ; 
But  'tis  their  priests  that  are  to  blame, 

For  leading  them  astray. 


CHILD. 


But  our  priests  say,  they  take  delight 
In  wicked  things  they  do  ; 

And  they  would  even  think  it  right 
To  murder  Pa  and  you. 


MOTHER. 


It  may  be  so,  I  do  not  know, 

I  hope  it  is  not  true ; 
Despite  the  priest,  I  hope  at  least 

They  know  not  what  they  do. 
I  often  hope  it  can't  be  true, — 

As  pious  Fathers  tell — 
Their  little  ones,  just  such  as  you, 

God  foreordain'd  to  Hell ! 
He  may  not  spare  old  ones  who  have 

In  wickedness  increased ; 
But  O,  I  think  he'll  surely  save 

The  little  babes  at  least. 


CATHOLIC  MOTHER  AND  CHILD.  69 


CHILD. 


Well,  good  or  bad,  I'm  very  glad 
They  live  across  the  sea ; 

I  hope  and  pray  they  never  may 
Come  nearer  unto  me. 


MOTHER. 

Ah  no  my  child  !  that  is  not  right  ! 

Our  duty  is  to  piay 
They  may  be  brought  to  see  the  light, 

And  seek  the  better  way. 
And  this  I  know,  that  great  and  small, 

And  bad  tho'  they  may  be, 
That  I  would  save  them,  one  and  all, 

If  it  were  left  to  me. 


70  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


AWFUL  SPIRIT. 

OD  !  who  can  Thee  comprehend  ! 

Without  beginning,  without  end, 
With  no  future,  with  no  past ! 
Ever  present,  first  and  last ; 
In  the  great,  as  in  the  small, 
Omnipresent  "  All  in  All ! " 
Nature's  ramparts — hill  and  rock, 
Men's  great  cities  pass  like  smoke  ; 
Time  and  nature  shrink  away, 
But  Thou  knowest  no  decay  : 
All  shall  perish  'neath  the  sun — 
Thou  art  the  Eternal  One ! 
In  Thine  everlasting  now, 
Awful  Spirit ! — what  art  Thou  ? 

At  Thy  works,  so  great  and  vast, 
Speculation  stands  aghast ; 
Everywhere  infinite  might, 
Height  still  towei'ing  over  height, 
Far  beyond  mind's  utmost  sweep, 
Deep  still  yawning  under  deep, 
Heaven  above,  earth  rolling  under, 
All  is  wonder  piled  on  wonder  ! 
Wisdom  !  glory  !  power  unbounded  ! 
Until  reason  stands  confounded. 
What  of  Thee  can  mortals  say  ? 
Silence  is  for  things  of  clay  ! 
Still  we  ask  the  "  whence,  and  how  ?" 
Awful  Spirit !— what  art  Thou  ? 

Artists  ne'er  can  represent 
Thy  o'erhanging  firmament, 


AWFUL  SPIRIT.  71 


Or  the  Morn,  in  robes  of  glory, 
Walking  on  the  mountains  hoary  ; 
When  the  shadows  hear  Thy  voice, 
And  the  awful  hills  rejoice, 
With  their  peaks  in  purple  dyed, 
In  Thy  smile  all  glorified. 
Who  can  bring  to  soul  or  sight 
Thy  unfathomed  gulfs  of  night  ? 
Or  the  awful  shadowy  power, 
Looking  through  the  midnight  hour. 
When  repentance  makes  her  vow —  . 
Awful  Spirit ! — what  art  Thou  ? 

How  can  poet  catch  the  tune 
Rising  from  Thy  groves  at  noon — 
When  each  leaf  and  flow' ret  sings 
Of  unutterable  things ; 
Who  can  note  the  full-heart  strains 
Swelling  from  Thy  forest  fanes, 
Or  the  thunder,  and  the  leap 
Of  the  torrents  down  the  steep  ; 
Or  the  laughter  of  the  rills, 
Or  the  silence  of  the  hills, 
Or  divine  the  soul  that  broods 
O'er  Thine  awful  solitudes  ? — 
Or  the  calm  on  Ocean's  brow  ? — 
Awful  Spirit ! — what  art  Thou  ! 

Turn  we  wheresoe'er  we  will, 
Thou,  O  God  !  art  with  us  still ; 
We  are  never  all  alone, — 
There's  a  presence  in  each  stone  ; 
All  the  air  is  full  of  eyes 
Looking  on  us  with  surpi'ise  ; 
Sympathies  run  everywhere, 
Thoughts  are  hurrying  through  the  air, 


72  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Bringing  near,  related  souls, 
Though  asunder  as  the  poles  ; 
Marvel  upon  marvel ! — still 
Miracle  on  miracle  ! — 
More  than  proud  man  will  avow, — 
Awful  Spirit ! — what  art  Thou  ? 

Yet  Thine  ancient  bards  have  brought 
Wonders  from  Thy  realms  of  thought : 
With  their  weird  and  wizard  spells 
They  have  wrought  their  miracles, 
Started  forms  which  make  us  start, 
Things  immortal  as  Thou  art ! 
But  those  wondrous  works  divine, 
Great  Immaculate  are  Thine  ! 
Awful  things  the  prophets  saw 
In  their  ecstasies  of  awe, 
In  the  body  laid  asleep, 
Sailing  the  eternal  deep  ; 
Faith  the  helm,  and  hope  the  prow — 
Awful  Spirit ! — what  art  Thou  ? 

Dreamer  vain  and  Pantheist, 
May  define  Thee  as  they  list ; 
As  in  childhood,  we  would  rather 
Look  upon  Thee  as  "  Our  Father." 
High  in  Heaven,  Thy  holy  city, 
Looking  down  in  love  and  pity, 
On  Thy  sons  of  fiery  clay 
Fighting  out  life's  tragedy. 
We  believe  "Almighty  Father," 
Thou  shalt  all  Thy  children  gather, 
Where  the  light  eternal  flows, 
And  no  wand'rer  asks,  "  ivho  knows  ?" 
Seeing  not  as  we  see  now — 
Awful  Spirit ! — what  art  Thou  ? 


TO  A  VIOLET.  73 


TO  A  VIOLET. 

H  lovely  little  violet  blue, 
:What  language  e'er  can  tell  me  true, 
My  strange  relationship  to  you. 

For,  gazing  on  thy  lovely  face, 
A  living  beauty  and  a  grace, 
A  strange  humanity  I  trace. 

And  yet  thou  mak'st  me  heave  a  sigh 
For  things  that  never  meet  the  eye, 
For  things  we'll  know  not  till  we  die. 

In  the  pure  regions  of  thy  smile, 
We  war  above  the  mean  and  vile, 
And  everything  that  can  defile. 

Tho'  springing  from  an  earthly  clod, 
Thou  tellest  me  of  a  bright  abode, 
Where  all  things  lovely  dwell  with  God. 

Save  for  such  visitants  as  thee, 
How  very  weary  we  would  be 
Of  this  load  of  mortality. 

Our  spirits  would  be  dark  as  night, 
But  for  such  gleams  of  beauty  bright ; 
Thou  living  rapture,  thou  delight ! 

And  thou  hast  come  my  lovely  flower, 

A  visitant  from  Beauty's  bower  ; 

Her  dew-drops  on  our  hearts  to  shower. 


74  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

And  thou  hast  come  to  talk  to  me 
Of  that  fair  world  where  we  shall  be 
From  every  sin  and  sorrow  free. 

And  thy  pure  spiritual  speech 

Into  nxy  inmost  soul  does  reach, 

I  feel — yet  know  not  what  you  teach. 

For,  lovely  flower,  thou  art  arrayed 

With  feelings  that  can  never  fade, 

And  thoughts  for  which  no  words  are  made. 

I  vainly  strive  to  fathom  thee, 
For  thou  canst  only  be  to  me 
A  beauty  and  a  mystery. 


STABS.  75 


STARS. 


TELL  me  not  of  mighty  wars  ! 
5|£Shut  out  the  world  and  all  its  jars, 
And  leave  me  with  God  and  the  stars. 

Ah,  there  ye  keep  your  courses  bright, 
Old  revellers  in  the  haU  of  night, 
Looking  down  on  us  with  delight. 

Ye,  in  that  mystic  vault  were  hung, 
Ere  mortals  into  being  sprung ;  — 
Before  Greece  was,  or  Homer  sung. 

At  God's  command  ye  rose  in  space, 
Bright  beauteous  orbs,  to  gem,  to  grace 
The  portals  of  His  dwelling  place  ! 

And  priests,  and  prophets,  sages  hoar, 
Looked  up  to  worship  and  adore 
In  that  old  world  which  is  no  more. 

Untouched  by  time,  or  tempest  shocks, 
Bright  as  when  David  fed  his  flocks 
Among  Judea's  rugged  rocks  : 

He  gazed  on  you  as  I  do  now, 
With  wond'ring  heart,  and  anxious  brow- 
Asked  the  unanswerable  "  how  t" 

We  are  the  lords  but  of  a  day  ; 
Ye  saw  Great  Alexander  sway 
An  empire  that  has  passed  away. 


76 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Where  is  he  ?  echo  answers  "  where  V 
But  still  ye  keep  your  courses  there, 
As  bright,  as  beautiful,  and  fair  ! 

Infinite  temple  !  for  no  sect 
Wert  thou  so  wonderfully  decked 
By  the  Almighty  Architect. 


Yet  all  those  worlds  shall  cease  to  be 
Yet,  Father,  thou  hast  given  to  me 
The  gift  of  immortality  ! 


IF  YOU  WOULD  BE  MASTER.  77 


IF  YOU  WOULD  BE  MASTER. 


fHIS  life  is  a  struggle  !  a  battle  at  best, 
A  journey  in  which  there's  no  haven  of  rest ; 
And  craggy  and  steep  is  the  path  you  must  tread, 
If  you  would  be  master,  and  sit  at  the  head. 

The  gods  had  their  battles,  they  fought  for  their  thrones, 
They  mounted  up  to  them  with  struggles  and  groans  ; 
And  so  the  frail  mortal  must  soar  above  dread, 
If  he  would  be  master,  and  sit  at  the  head. 

0  never  strike  sail  to  a  cowardly  fear  ! 

And  welcome  for  God's  sake  the  taunt  and  the  jeer, 

And  look  at  the  devil  without  fear  or  dread, 

If  you  would  be  master,  and  sit  at  the  head. 

Be  humble  and  lowly,  be  upright  and  brave ; 
Be  often  the  servant,  but  never  the  slave ; 
Submit  to  be  bullied,  but  never  be  led, 
If  you  would  be  master,  and  sit  at  the  head. 

The  laws  of  creation  insist  on  respect ; 
Believe  in  the  virtues  of  cause  and  effect ; 
Trust  only  to  truth,  and  you'll  ne'er  be  misled, 
If  you  would  be  master,  and  sit  at  the  head. 

Renounce  all  deception,  all  cunning,  and  lies, 
Let  truth  be  the  pinion  on  which  you  would  rise ; 
Believe  all  deception  is  rotten  and  dead, 
If  you  would  be  master,  and  sit  at  the  head. 


78 


MISCELLANEOUS  J'OEMS. 


0  SPREAD  THE  GLAD  TIDINGS. 

SPREAD  the  glad  tidings  !  with  rapturous  voice, 
-Ye  peoples  and  nations  all  shout  and  rejoice; 
The  long  night  of  doubt  and  distraction  is  past, 
And  the  bright  sun  of  knowledge  has  risen  at  last. 
We  know  that  the  soul  shall  immortally  bloom, 
For  a  glorious  light  has  burst  in  on  the  tomb, 
And  death  is  no  longer  the  angel  of  gloom. 

The  seventh  seal's  broken  !  the  herald's  gone  forth  ! 

Communion's  established  'twixt  heaven  and  earth, 

With  songs  of  rejoicing  the  glad  tidings  spread — 

The  dear  ones  are  living  we  mourned  for  as  dead : 

They've  changed  but  their  garments,  they've  gone  but  before, 

Tho'  they  left  us  to  weep  on  Time's  desolate  shore, 

Yet,  they'll  come  to  welcome  us,  parting  no  more  ! 

To  souls  that  are  groping  their  way  in  the  dark,  . 
0,  welcome's  the  dawn  and  the  song  of  the  lark, 
And  welcome's  the  beams  of  the  bright  morning  star, 
But  this  is  a  glory  more  welcome  by  far ! 
O  dearer  than  sunshine  !  more  precious  than  gold  ! 
And  greater  than  that  by  the  prophets  foretold, 
Or  all  that  was  longed  for  by  sages  of  old  ! 


Then  sing,  for  the  dark  veil  at  last  is  withdrawn ; 
Rejoice  in  the  light  of  this  glorious  dawn ; 
We  hoped  against  hope  through  the  weariful  past, 
But  faith's  superseded  by  knowledge  at  last. 
We  stumble  no  longer  'twixt  doubt  and  despair, 
For  we  know  there's  a  region  surpassingly  fair, 
We  know  that  the  Summer-land's  shining  up  there. 


0  SPREAD  THE  GLAD   TIDINGS.  79 

Then  sing,  for  the  wild  reign  of  terror  is  o'er  ! 

And  the  tales  of  earth's  childhood  can  frighten  no  more. 

Superstition  and  all  her  dark  brood  is  o'ercast, 

And  the  great  King  of  Terrors  discrowned  is  at  last. 

Let  the  voice  of  your  gladness  in  anthems  ascend, 

Spread  the  tidings  of  joy  to  earth's  uttermost  end, 

That  Death  is  indeed  poor  humanity's  friend. 


INSCRIBED 


ALEXANDER  MACNABB,  ESQ., 


TORONTO. 


Idyls  of  the  Dominion. 


There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods." 

Byron. 


ELORA. 

LOVELY  Elora  !  thy  vallej7  and  stream, 
Still  dwell  in  my  heart  like  a  beautiful  dream  ; 
And  everything  peaceful  and  gentle  I  see, 
Brings  back  to  my  bosom  some  image  of  thee. 
I've  roamed  this  Dominion  allured  by  the  beam 
Of  wild  woodland  beauty,  by  valley  and  stream : 
From  lone  Manitoulin  all  down  to  the  sea; 
But  found  ne'er  a  spot,  sweet  Elora,  like  thee. 


There's  lone  rocky  grandeur  away  at  the  Sound, 
And  down  the  St.  Lawrence  wild  beauties  abound ; 
Quebec,  towering  proudly,  looks  down  on  the  sea, 
And  lone  Gananoque  there's  beauty  in  thee ; 
And  Barrie  !  the  lady  that  sits  by  the  lake, 
0,  would  I  could  sing  a  sweet  song  for  her  sake  3 
But  here  in  thy  beauty  a-list'ning  the  fall, 
0,  lovely  Elora  !    thou'rt  queen  of  them  all. 


84  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 

If  friends  should  forsake  me,  or  fortune  depart, 
Or  love  fly,  and  leave  a  great  void  in  my  heart ; 
O,  then  in  my  sorrow  away  I  would  flee, 
And  hide  from  misfortune,  Elora,  in  thee. 
Away  from  the  world,  with  its  falsehood  and  pride, 
In  yon  lowly  cot  where  the  smooth  waters  glide, 
I'd  commune  with  Nature  till  death  set  me  free, 
And  rest  then  for  ever,  Elora,  in  thee. 


iCWvVW 


THE  HALL  OF  SHADOWS.  85 


THE   HALL  OF  SHADOWS. 

fHE  sun  is  up,  and  through  the  woods, 
His  golden  rays  are  streaming ; 
The  dismal  swamp,  and  swale  so  damp, 

With  faces  bright  are  beaming. 
And  in  the  wind-fall,  by  the  creek, 

We  hear  the  partridge  drumming ; 
And  strange  bright  things,  on  airy  wings, 
Are  all  around  us  humming. 

The  merry  schoolboys,  in  the  woods, 

The  chipmonk  are  pursuing, 
And  as  he  starts,  with  happy  hearts, 

They're  after  him  hallooing. 
The  squirrel  hears  the  urchins'  cheers — 

They  never  catch  him  lagging — 
And  on  the  beech,  beyond  their  reach, 
Hear  how  the  fellow's  bragging  ! 

The  red-bird  pauses  in  his  song — 

The  face  of  man  aye  fearing — 
And  flashes  like  a  flame  along 

The  border  of  the  clearing. 
The  humming-bird,  above  the  flower, 

Is  like  a  halo  bending  ; 
Or  like  the  gleams,  we  catch  in  dream-, 

Of  heavenly  things  descending. 

And  hear  the  bugle  of  the  bee 

Among  the  tufted  clover  ! 
This  day,  like  thee,  I'll  wander  free, 

My  little  wildwood  rover  ! 


86  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 

Through  groves  of  beech,  and  maple  green, 
And  pines  of  lofty  stature ; 

By  this  lone  creek,  once  more  we'll  seek 
The  savage  haunts  of  nature. 

See  there  a  noble  troop  of  pines 

Have  made  a  sudden  sally, 
And  all,  in  straight  unbroken  lines, 

Are  rushing  up  the  valley  ; 
And  round  about  the  lonely  spring 

They  gather  in  a  cluster, 
Then  off  again,  till  on  the  plain, 

The  great  battalions  muster. 

And  there  the  little  evergreens 

Are  clust'ring  in  the  hollows, 
And  hazels  green,  with  sumachs  lean 

Among  the  weeping  willows  ; 
Or  sit  in  pride,  the  creek  beside, 

Or  through  the  valley  ramble  ; 
Or  up  the  height,  in  wild  delight, 

Among  the  rocks  they  scramble. 

And  here  a  gorge,  all  reft  and  rent, 

With  rocks  in  wild  confusion, 
As  they  were  by  the  wood-gods  sent, 

To  guard  them  from  intrusion. 
And  gulfs,  all  yawning  wild  and  wide, 

As  if  by  earthquakes  shattered ; 
And  rocks  that  stand,  a  grizzly  band  ! 

By  time  and  tempest  battered. 

Some  great  pines  blasted  in  their  pride, 
Above  the  gorge  are  bending, 

And  rock-elms  from  the  other  side, 
Their  mighty  arms  extending. 


THE  HALL  OF  SHADOWS.  87 

And  midway  down  the  dark  descent, 

One  fearful  hemlock's  clinging, 
His  headlong  fall  he  would  prevent, 

And  grapnels  out  he's  flinging. 

One  ash  has  ventured  to  the  brink, 

And  tremblingly  looks  over 
That  awful  steep,  where  shadows  sleep, 

And  mists  at  noonday  hover. 
But  further  in  the  woods  we  go, 

Through  beech  and  maple  valleys, 
And  elms  that  stand  like  patriarchs  grand, 

In  long  dark  leafy  alleys. 

Away,  away  !  from  blue-eyed  day, 

The  sunshine  and  the  meadows ; 
We  find  our  way,  at  noon  of  day, 

Within  the  Hall  of  Shadows. 
How  like  a  great  cathedral  vast !    . 

With  creeping  vines  roofed  over, 
While  shadows  dim,  with  faces  grim, 

Far  in  the  distance  hover. 

Among  the  old  cathedral  aisles, 

And  Gothic  arches  bending, 
And  ever  in  the  sacred  pales, 

The  twilight  gloom  descending. 
And  let  me  turn  where'er  I  will, 

A  step  is  aye  pursuing  ; 
And  there's  an  eye  upon  me  still, 

That's  watching  all  I'm  doing. 

And  in  the  centre,  there's  a  pool, 

And  by  that  pool  is  sitting, 
A  shape  of  Fear  with  shadows  drear 

For  ever  round  her  flitting. 


88  IDYLS  OF -THE  DOMINION. 

Why  is  her  face  so  full  of  woe  ? 

So  hopeless  and  dejected  ?  " 
Sees  she  but  there  in  her  despair, 

Nought  but  herself  reilected  ? 

Is  it  the  gloom  within  my  heart, 

Or  lingering  superstition, 
Which  draws  me  here  three  times  a  year 

To  this  weird  apparition  ? 
I  cannot  tell  what  it  may  be, 

I  only  know  that  seeing 
That  shape  of  Fear,  draws  me  more  near 

The  secret  soul  of  being. 


01  COME  TO  THE  GREENWOOD  SHADE.  89 


0  !  COME  TO  THE  GREENWOOD  SHADE. 

'  COME  to  the  greenwood  shade, 

£>,     Away  from  the  city's  din, 
From  the  heartless  strife  of  trade, 

And  the  fumes  of  beer  and  gin  ; 
Where  commerce  spreads  her  fleets, 

Where  bloated  luxury  lies, 
And  Want  as  she  prowls  the  streets, 

Looks  on  with  her  wolfish  eyes. 

From  the  city  with  its  sin, 

And  its  many  coloured  code, 
Its  palaces  raised  to  gin, 

And  its  temples  reared  to  God  ; 
Its  cellars  dark  and  dank,    * 

Where  never  a  sunbeam  falls, 
Amid  faces  lean  and  lank, 

As  the  hungry -looking  walls. 

Its  festering  pits  of  woe, 

Its  teeming  earthly  hells, 
Whose  surges  ever  flow, 

In  sound  of  the  Sabbath  bells  ! 
0  God  !  I  would  rather  be 

An  Indian  in  the  wood, 
And  range  through  the  forest  free, 

In  search  of  my  daily  food. 

O  !    rather  would  I  pursue, 
The  wolf  and  the  grizzly  bear, 

Than  toil  for  the  thankless  few, 
In  those  seething  pits  of  care  ; 


90  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 

Here  winter's  breath  is  rude, 
And  his  fingers  cold  and  wan  ; 

But  what  is  his  wildest  mood, 
To  the  tyranny  of  man  ? 

To  the  trackless  forest  wild, 

To  the  loneliest  abode  ; 
0  !  the  heart  is  reconciled, 

That  has  felt  oppression's  load  ! 
The  desert  place  is  bright, 

The  wilderness  is  fair, 
If  hope  but  shed  her  light, — 

If  freedom  be  but  there. 


THE  GIPSY  BLOOD.  91 


THE  GIPSY  BLOOD. 


fHE  spring  is  here,  with  her  voice  of  cheer, 
For  the  winter  winds  are  gone  ; 
And  now  with  the  birds,  and  the  antler'd  herds, 

My  roving  fit  conies  on. 
I  lone;  to  be  in  th'  forest  free 
From  civilization's  chains ; 
For  there's  surely  a  flood  of  the  Gipsy  blood 
Still  running  in  my  veins  ! 

My  soul  is  sick  of  this  smoke  and  brick, 

I  long  for  a  breath  that's  free ; 
The  desert  air,  and  the  hunter's  fare, 

The  woods,  the  woods  for  me  ! 
Where  things  unbroke  by  curb,  or  yoke, 

Bound  through  the  green  domains  ; 
For  there's  surely  a  flood  of  the  Gipsy  blood 

Still  running  in  my  veins  ! 

I'm  sick  of  trade,  for  its  ways  have  made 

These  artificial  men  ; 
I  long  to  be  with  the  wild  and  free, 

In  the  trackless  savage  glen. 
For  all  my  life  has  been  a  strife 

With  their  bridles,  curbs,  and  chains  ; 
For  there's  a  flood  of  the  Gipsy  blood 

Still  running  in  my  veins  ! 

O !  why  should  I  moil,  and  strain  and  toil 
For  the  lifeless  things  of  art  ? 


92  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 

While  the  greenwood  bowers,  and  the  wildwood  flowers 

Are  springing  in  my  heart — 
Yes,  deep  in  my  heart,  devoid  of  art 

A  savage  spot  remains  ; 
For  there's  a  flood  of  the  Gipsy  blood    A 

Still  running  in  my  veins  ! 

Let  who  may  dwell,  to  buy  and  sell, 

I'm  off  with  the  roving  clan ; 
For  what  are  your  gains,  but  curbs  and  chains 

To  the  freeborn  soul  of  man  ? 
I'm  off  and  away  with  the  joyous  May, 

To  freedom's  glorious  fanes ; 
For  there's  a  flood  of  the  Gipsy  blood 

Still  running  in  my  veins  ! 


THE  SETTLERS  SABBATH  DAY.  93 


THE  SETTLER'S  SABBATH  DAY. 

^M^ELCOME  to  the  weary  worn  ! 
;*£/    Welcome  to  the  heart  forlorn  ! 
Welcome,  sacred  Sabbath  morn  ! 

Peace  from  yonder  clouds  descending, 
Heaven  and  earth  again  are  blending, 
And  the  woods  in  worship  bending. 

Yonder  distant  hill-pines  lie 
On  the  bosom  of  the  sky, 
Musing  on  things  deep  and  high. 

Yea,  the  very  swamp  has  caught 
Something  like  a  holy  thought, 
And  its  face  with  love  is  fraught. 

While  yon  ancient  elms  extend 
Their  great  arms,  and  arch  and  blend 
Tnto  cloisters  without  end. 

Forming  many  a  still  retreat, 
Where  the  noon-tide  shadows  meet, 
Ever  on  their  noiseless  feet. 

Blessed  Morn  !  thou'rt  welcome  here 

To  the  backwoods  Pioneer, 

Far  from  all  his  heart  holds  dear. 

He  has  wandered  far  away 
From  the  land  of  mountains  grey, 
Where  his  children  are  at  play  : 


94  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 

Urged  by  independence  on, 
Far  into  these  wilds  unknown, 
He  has  ventured  all  alone. 

Freedom  whispered  in  his  breast, 
He  would  find  a  home  of  rest 
In  the  forests  of  the  west. 

But  he  found  it  hard  to  part 
From  the  partner  of  his  heart, 
In  that  cottage  by  the  Cart. 

And  his  little  children  three, 
Crowding  all  around  his  knee, 
Whom  he  never  more  might  see. 

In  his  log- built  cabin  rude, 

In  the  forest  solitude, 

There  he  sits  in  thoughtful  mood. 

"  Who,"  he  asks,  "  at  God's  behest 
Will  lead  forth  His  poor  oppressed 
To  this  Refuge  in  the  West  ? 

"  While  these  wilds  cry  out  for  toil, 
To  produce  their  corn  and  oil, 
Men  starve  on  their  native  soil ! 

"  Willing  hearts  are  left  to  wither, 
Bring,  O,  bring  the  workers  hither  ! 
Bring  the  lands  and  hands  together." 

From  such  thoughts  he  turns  away, 

For  on  this,  God's  Holy  Day, 

He  would  hear  what  prophets  say. 

Even  Burns,  he  puts  aside  ! 

Burns  !  his  week-day  joy  and  pride, 

Burns  !  so  human,  wild  and  wide. 


THE  SETTLER'S  SABBATH  DAY.  95 

And  he  brings  from  out  its  nook, 
That  great  Book  of  books,  the  Book  ! 
On  its  sacred  page  to  look. 

Now  some  song  of  Israel's  King 
Comes  as  on  an  angel's  wing, 
Through  his  very  soul  to  sing : 

Songs,  that  bring  a  joy  untold  ! 
Songs,  more  precious  far  than  gold  ! 
Songs,  that  never  can  grow  old  ! 

Sung  by  martyrs  in  the  glen, 
And  in  sorrow's  darkest  den 
Cheer  the  souls  of  weary  men. 

Now  he  reads  the  tragic  story, 
How  the  world  in  sin  grown  hoary, 
Crucified  the  Son  of  Glory  : 

He — the  hope  of  every  clime, 
He — the  sole  bright  star  in  time, 
Solitary  soul  sublime  ! 

Then  his  knee  to  Heaven  he  bends, 
For  his  children  and  his  friends, 
All  his  soul  in  pra\?er  ascends. 

May  God  guide  them  o'er  the  deep, ' 
As  a  shepherd  guides  his  sheep, 
Once  more  to  his  arms  to  leap  ! 

Now  he  prays  for  all  in  pain, 
For  the  wretched  and  insane, 
And  his  tears  they  fall  like  rain  : 

Pleading  for  the  sons  of  crime, 
The  despised,  the  dross,  the  slime, — 
Wretched,  Lord  in  every  clime. 


96  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 

For  the  outcast  in  his  lair, 
All  that  need  a  brother's  care, 
Houseless  vagrants  everywhere  ! 

Prays  that  mists  may  cease  to  blind 

Fellow-workmen  left  behind, 

"  May  they,  Lord,  have  strength  of  mind 

"  To  resist  the  drunken  feast, 
Scorning  all  that  has  increased 
Their  relation  to  the  beast. 

"  Let  their  worth  appear  in  deeds, 
Wot  in  whining  of  their  needs, 
Or  in  mouthing  of  the  creeds. 

"  Let  them  try  to  fill  the  ditch 
That  divides  the  poor  and  rich, 
Like  a  seething  lake  of  pitch. 

"  Ever  doing  what  they  can, 
Working  out  each  noble  plan, 
Calling  forth  the  God  in  Man  ! 

"  Break,  O  Lord  !  the  spell  of  birth, 
Haste  the  time  when  moral  worth 
Shall  take  highest  rank  on  earth. 

"  Break  the  chains  of  creed  and  caste, 
Heal  the  wounds  of  all  the  past, 
Bring  the  reio;n  of  Love  at  last." 

'Till  the  shadows  lengthen  grey, 
'Mong  the  woods  in  dark  array, 
Thus,  he  keeps  the  Sabbath  day. 


A  BACKWOODS'  HERO.  97 


A  BACKWOODS'  HERO. 

[Canada  is  prolific  in  heroes  of  its  own  ;  men  who  venture  into  the 
wilderness,  perhaps,  with  little  save  an  axe  and  a  determined  will,  and 
hew  their  way  to  independence.  Almost  every  locality  can  point  to 
some  hero  of  this  kind,  who  overcame  difficulties  and  dangers  with  a 
determination,  which,  in  a  wider  sphere,  would  have  commanded  the 
admiration  of  the  world.  Energetic,  inventive,  sleepless  souls,  who 
fought  with  wild  nature,  cleared  seed-fields  in  the  forest,  built  mills, 
schools  and  churches  where,  but  a  few  years  before,  naught  was  heard 
save  the  howl  of  the  wolf  and  the  whoop  of  the  Indian.  Who  gathered, 
perhaps,  a  little  community  of  hardy  pioneers  around  them,  and  to 
which  they  were  Carpenter,  Blacksmith,  and  Architect,  Miller,  Doctor, 
Lawyer  and  Judge,  all  in  one. 

The  following  is  a  rough  sketch,  or  portrait,  of  one  such,  with  whom 
the  author  was  long  and  intimately  acquainted.  ] 

■X'x^Z'HERE  yonder  ancient  willow  weeps, 

Zoy      The  Father  of  the  village  sleeps  ; 
Tho'  but  of  humble  birth, 
As  rare  a  specimen  was  he, 
Of  Nature's  true  nobility, 
As  ever  trod  the  earth. 
The  busy  head  and  hands  are  still ; 
Quenched  the  unconquerable  will 
Which  fought  and  triumphed  here  ; 
And  tho'  he's  all  unknown  to  fame, 
Yet  grateful  hearts  still  bless  his  name, 
And  hold  his  nienrry  dear. 

He  hither  came  in  days  when  this 

Was  all  a  howling  wilderness, 

With  little  save  his  axe, 

And  cut,  and  slashed,  and  hewed  his  way, 

And  scarce  a  moment  night  or  day 

His  efforts  did  relax. 


98  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 

For  at  it,  with  a  will,  he  went, 
And  all  his  energies  he  bent, 
Determined  to  get  through ; 
To  him,  all  labour  seemed  but  sport, 
The  Summer-day  was  far  too  short 
For  all  he  had  to  do  ! 


He  chopped,  he  logged,  he  cleared  his  lot, 

And  into  many  dismal  spot 

He  let  the  light  of  day ; 

And  through  the  long  and  dismal  swamp, 

So  dark,  so  dreary,  and  so  damp, 

He  made  a  turnpike  way. 

The  church,  the  school-house,  and  the  mill, 

The  store,  the  forge,  the  vat,  the  kiln, 

Were  triumphs  of  his  hand ; 

And  many  a  lovely  spot  of  green, 

Which  peeps  out  there  the  woods  between, 

Came  forth  at  his  command. 

What  was  it  that  he  would  not  face  ? 

He  bridged  the  stream,  he  cut  the  race, 

Led  water  to  the  mill  ; 

And  planned  and  plodded  night  and  day, 

'Till  every  obstacle  gave  way 

To  his  unconquered  will. 

And  he  was  always  at  our  call, 

Was  Doctor,  Lawyer,  Judge  and  all ; 

And  all  throughout  the  Section, 

0,  there  was  nothing  could  be  done — 

No  field  from  out  the  forest  won, 

Save  under  his  direction  ! 

He  drew  up  deeds,  he  measured  land, 
For  all  the  people  thought  and  planned, 
Did  aught  to  help  a  neighbour  ; 
He  always  had  so  much  to  do,  , 


A  BACKWOODS1  HERO.  99 

Folks  wondered  how  he  e'er  got  through, 

With  such  a  load  of  labour. 

But  something  in  his  face  said  "  work  !  " 

The  very  dullest  could  not  shirk, 

The  deafest  had  to  mind  him  ; 

And  if  he  only  looked  or  spoke, 

Or  only  said  a  word  in  joke, 

He  left  his  mark  behind  him. 

All  prospered  where  he  had  a  hand  ; 

The  houses  that  he  built  would  stand, 

The  seed  he  set  would  grow  : 

And  for  his  bait  the  fishes  fought, 

The  deer  seemed  willing  to  be  caught — 

'Twas  strange,  but  it  was  so. 

His  plan  of  things  was  aye  the  best ; 

He  carried  success  in  his  breast, 

He  had  such  art  about  him, 

That,  truty  nothing  could  go  on, 

Wer't  but  the  rolling  of  a  stone, 

It  rolled  not  right  without  him. 

Yet  he  would  never  follow  rules ; 
Systems  of  colleges  and  schools, 
To  him  were  all  unknown  ; 
And  in  mechanics,  and  in  trade, 
His  calculations  all  were  made, 
By  systems  of  his  own. 
Few  were  his  words,  yet  what  he  said, 
Had  a}'e  the  ring  of  "  go-a-head," 
Improvement  was  his  passion  ; 
Tho'  into  order  much  he  brought, 
You  always  found  him  in  a  coat 
An  age  behind  the  fashion. 

A  feeling  heart  was  in  his  breast, 
And  cruelty  to  man  or  beast, 


100  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 

Found  him  a  foe  unsparing; 

The  two  things  which  he  could  not  bear, 

That  often  made  the  good  man  swear, 

Were  gossip  and  tale-bearing. 

New  comers,  when  their  crops  did  fail, 

Would  come  and  tell  their  mournful  tale, 

And  he  would  fill  a  sack  ; 

It  always  seemed  to  do  him  good, 

To  give  a  hungry  mortal  food, 

And  send  him  smiling  back. 

If  roughs  assembled  at  a  bee, 

And  steaming  with  the  "barley  bree," 

They  raged,  and  roared,  and  swaggered, 

As  soon  as  e'er  his  face  they  saw, 

It  held  in  reverential  awe, 

The  most  regardless  blackguard  ! 

He  had  his  enemies,  no  doubt, 

Such  men,  as  he,  are  ne'er  without 

A  brood  of  spiteful  lies ; 

Tho'  styled  by  some  "  The  Autocrat," 

He  paid  as  small  regard  to  that, 

As  to  the  summer  Hies. 

He  sought  not  fame,  nor  did  he  e'er 

Find  fault  with  his  too  narrow  sphere, 

Tho'  many  a  body  said 

"  He  was  the  man  who  should  be  sent 

To  rule  our  rabble  Parliament, — 

It  wanted  such  a  head." 

And  here  he  ruled,  and  here  he  reigned. 

And  no  man  lost  by  what  he  gained  ; 

And  here  he  lies  at  rest ! 

And  may  his  mem'ry  never  fade, 

And  may  the  turf  upon  him  laid, 

Lie  lightly  on  his  breast ! 


SPARKING.  101 


SPARKING. 

IVE  me  the  night  when  the  moon  shines  bright, 
And  the  stars  come  forth  to  meet  her, 
When  the  very  snow  is  all  aglow, 

And  the  dismal  swamp  looks  sweeter  ; 
When  the  cows  are  fed,  old  folks  in  bed, 

And  young  lads  go  a  larking, 
And  no  one  by  with  a  prying  eye, 
0,  that's  the  time  for  sparking. 

When  all  the  "  chores  "  are  done  out  doors, 

And  the  hearth  is  swept  up  trimly, 
And  th'  backlog  bright,  like  a  jovial  wight, 

Is  roaring  up  the  chimney. 
I  listen  oft,  for  his  signal  soft, 

'Till  Tray  sets  up  his  barking ; 
For  dogs  as  well  as  folks  must  tell 

When  anybody's  sparking. 

I've  sat  with  him  till  th'  log  burned  dim, 

And  the  owls  were  all  too-whooing ; 
For  don't  they  spark,*too,  in  the  dark, 

Aint  that  their  way  of  wooing  ? 
I  ne'er  could  bear  love  anywhere, 

Where  folks  were  all  remarking — 
You  act  a  part,  but  bless  your  heart, 

That's  not  what  I  call  sparking. 

At  public  halls,  pic-nics,  and  balls, 

The  lads  will  try  to  please  you  ; 
But  it  takes  the  bliss  all  from  a  kiss, 

If  anybody  sees  you. 
My  old  aunt  says,  in  her  young  days, 

Folks  never  wooed  the  dark  in  ; 
It  might  be  so,  then  Oh  dear,  oh  ! 

They  little  knew  of  sparking. 


102  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 


NEIGHBOUR  JOHN. 

t  HERE'S  neighbour  John,  dull  as  a  stone, 
An  earthy  man  is  he, 
Tn  Nature's  face,  no  single  trace 

Of  beauty  can  he  see. 
He's  wrought  with  her  for  sixty  years  ; 

Believes  he  did  his  duty  ; 
Yet  all  that  time  saw  naught  sublime, 
Nor  drank  one  draught  of  beauty. 

His  only  joy,  as  man  and  boy, 

Was  but  to  plod  and  moil, 
Until  his  very  soul  itself 

Has  grown  into  the  soil. 
He  sees  no  vision,  hears  no  voice 

To  make  his  spirit  start ; 
The  glory  and  the  mystery 

Ne'er  settl'd  on  his  heart. 

The  great  vault's  hanging  o'er  his  head, 

The  earth  is  rolling  under, 
On  which  he's  borne  fr6m  night  till  morn, 

With  not  one  look  of  wonder. 
Talk  not  to  him  of  yonder  clouds 

In  glory  mass'd  together, 
John  but  beholds  in  all  their  folds 

Some  index  of  the  weather. 

Talk  not  of  old  cathedral  woods, 

Their  Gothic  arches  throwing, 
John  only  sees  in  all  those  trees, 

So  many  saw-logs  growing. 
For  in  the  woods  no  spirit  broods, 

The  grove's  no  longer  haunted  ; 
The  gods  have  gone  to  realms  unknown, 

And  earth  is  disenchanted. 


NEIGHBOUR  JOHN.  103 


In  Day,  with  all  its  bright  array, 

And  black  Night  still  returning, 
He  never  saw  one  gleam  of  awe, 

Tho'  all  their  lamps  were  burning  ! 
Their  seasons  in  their  mystic  round 

Their  magic  work  are  doing  ; 
Spring  comes  and  goes,  the  wild  flower  blows, 

And  Winter's  storms  are  brewing. 

And  Indian  Rummer  steps  between, 

In  robes  of  purple  gleaming, 
Or  in  a  maze  of  golden  haze, 

The  live-long  day  is  dreaming. 
John  stands  with  dull  insensate  look, 

His  very  soul's  grown  hoary  ! 
And  sees  in  all,  but  sear  leaves  fall. 

And  not  one  gleam  of  glory. 

For  beauty  and  sublimity, 

Are  but  a  useless  blunder  ; 
And  nauo-ht  can  start  awe  in  his  heart. 

No,  nothing  short  of  thunder  ! 
He  knows  the  world's  a  solid  world, 

And  that  a  spade's  a  spade, 
And  that  for  food  and  raiment,  all 

The  heavens  and  earth  were  made. 

He  laughs  at  all  our  ecstasies, 

And  he  keeps  still  repeating 
"  You  say  'tis  fair,  but  will  it  wear  ? 

Or  is  it  good  for  eating  ?  " 
And  we  can  only  say  to  him 

"  That  it  is  very  tragic, 
To  see  but  kites  and  appetites, 

Prowl  in  this  Hall  of  Magic !" 


104  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 


FIRE  IN  THE  WOODS,  OR  THE  OLD  SETTLER'S 
STORY. 


M 


y  HEN  first  I  settled  in  the  woods, 


There  were  no  neighbours  nigh, 
And  scarce  a  living  thing,  save  wolves, 

And  Molly  dear,  and  I, 
We  had  our  troubles,  ne'er  a  doubt, 

In  those  wild  woods  alone  ; 
But  then,  sir,  I  was  bound  to  have 

A  homestead  of  my  own. 

This  was  ray  field  of  battle,  and 

The  forest  was  my  foe, 
And  here  I  fought  with  ne'er  a  thought, 

Save  "  lay  the  giants  low." 
I  toiled  in  hope — got  in  a  crop, 

And  Molly  watched  the  cattle ; 
To  keep  those  "  breachy  ''  steers  away, 

She  had  a  weary  battle. 

The  devil's  dears  were  those  two  steers, 

Ah  !  they  were  born  fence-breakers, 
And  sneaked  all  day,  and  watched  their  prey. 

Like  any  salt-sea  wreckers  ; 
And  gradually,  as  day  by  day, 

My  crop  grew  golden  yellow, 
My  heart  and  hope  grew  with  that  crop, 

I  was  a  happy  fellow. 

That  crop  would  set  me  on  my  feet, 

And  I'd  have  done  with  care  ; 
I  built  away,  the  live-long  day, 

Such  "  castles  in  the  air  ! " 


FIRE  IN  THE  WOODS.  105 

I'd  beaten  poverty  at  last, 

And  like  a  little  boy, 
When  he  has  got  his  first  new  coat, 

I  fairly  leapt  for  joy. 

I  blush  to  think  upon  it  yet, 

That  I  was  such  a  fool, 
But  young  folks  must  learn  wisdom,  sir, 

In  Old  Misfortune's  school. 
One  fatal  night,  I  thought  the  wind 

Gave  some  unwonted  sighs, 
Down  through  the  swamp,  I  heard  a  tramp, 

Which  took  me  by  surprise. 

Is  this  an  earthquake  drawing  near  ? 

The  forest  moans  and  shivers  ; 
And  then  I  thought  that  I  could  hear 

The  rushing  of  great  rivers ; 
And  while  I  looked,  and  listened  there, 

A  herd  of  deer  swept  by, 
As  from  a  close  pursuing  foe, 

They  madly  seem'd  to  fly. 

But  still  those  sounds,  in  long  deep  bounds, 

Like  warning  heralds  came, 
And  then  I  saw,  with  fear  and  awe, 

The  heavens  were  all  aflame. 
I  knew  the  woods  must  be  on  fire — 

I  trembled  for  my  crop, 
As  I  stood  there  in  mute  despair — 

It  seem'd  the  death  of  hope. 

On,  on  it  came,  a  sea  of  flame, 

In  long  deep  rolls  of  thunder, 
And  drawing  near,  it  seem'd  to  tear 

The  heavens  and  earth  asunder ; 


106  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 

How  those  waves  snored,  and  raged,  and  roared, 

And  reared  in  wild  commotion  ! 
On,  on  they  came,  like  steeds  of  flame 

Upon  a  burning  ocean. 

How  they  did  snort,  in  fiendish  sport, 

As  at  the  great  elms  dashing, 
And  how  they  tore  'mong  hemlocks  hoar, 

And  through  the  pines  went  crashing. 
While  serpents  wound  the  trunks  around, 

Their  eyes  like  demons  gleaming, 
And  wrapped  like  thongs  around  the  prongs, 

And  to  the  crests  went  screaming. 

Ah  !  how  they  swept,  and  madly  leapt, 

From  shrieking  spire  to  spire, 
'Mid  hissing  hail,  and  in  their  trail, 

A  roaring  lake  of  fire  ! 
Anon  some  whirlwind  all  aflame, 

Growled  in  the  ocean  under, 
Then  up  would  reel  a  fiery  wheel, 

And  belch  forth  smoke  and  thunder. 

And  it  was  all  that  we  could  do 

To  save  ourselves  by  flight, 
As  from  its  track  we  madly  flew, — 

Oh  !  'twas  an  awful  night ! 
When  all  was  past,  I  stood  aghast, 

My  crop  and  shanty  gone, 
And  blackened  trunks  'mid  smouldering  chunks. 

Like  spectres  looking  on. 

A  host  of  skeletons  they  seemed, 

Amid  the  twilight  dim, 
All  standing  there  in  their  despair. 

With  faces  gaunt  and  grim  ; 


FIRE  IN  THE  WOODS.  107 

And  I  stood  like  a  spectre  too, 

A  ruined  man  was  I, 
And  nothing  left — what  could  I  do 

But  sit  me  down  and  cry  ? 

A  heavy  heart  indeed  was  mine, 

Fur  I  was  ruined  wholly, 
And  I  gave  way  that  awful  day 

To  moping  melancholy ; 
I  lost  my  all,  in  field  and  stall, 

And  nevermore  would  thrive, 
All  save  those  steers — the  devil's  dears 

Had  saved  themselves  alive, 

Nor  would  T  have  a  farm  to  day, 

Had  it  not  been  for  Molly, 
She  cheered  me  up,  and  charmed  away 

My  moping  melancholy ; 
She  schemed  and  planned  to  keep  the  land. 

And  cultivate  it  too, 
And  how  I  moiled,  and  strained,  and  toiled, 

And  fought  the  battle  through. 

Yes,  Molly  played  her  part  full  well, 

She's  plucky  every  inch,  sir, 
It  seemed  to  me  the  "  deil  himsel," 

Could  not  make  Molly  flinch,  sir ; 
We  wrought,  and  fought  until  our  star 

Got  into  the  ascendant ; 
At  troubles  past,  we  smile  at  last. 

And  now  we're  independent ! 


108  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 


THE  MAN  WHO  ROSE  FROM  NOTHING. 

ROUND  the  world  the  fame  is  blown 
Of  fighting  heroes,  dead  and  gone  ; 
But  we've  a  hero  of  our  own — 
The  man  who  rose  from  nothing. 

He's  a  magician  great  and  grand ; 
The  forests  fled  at  his  command  ; 
And  here  he  said,  "  let  cities  stand  !" — 
The  man  who  rose  from  nothing. 

And  in  our  legislative  hall 
He  towering  stands  alone,  like  Saul, 
"  A  head  and  shoulders  over  all," — 
The  man  who  rose  from  nothing. 

His  efforts  he  will  ne'er  relax, 
Has  faith  in  figures  and  in  facts, 
And  always  calls  an  axe  an  axe, — 
The  man  who  rose  from  nothing. 

The  gentleman  in  word  and  deed  ; 
And  short  and  simple  is  his  creed ; 
"  Fear  God  and  help  the  soul  in  need  !" — 
The  man  who  rose  from  nothing. 

In  other  lands  he's  hardly  known, 
For  he's  a  product  of  our  own  ; 
Could  grace  a  shanty  or  a  throne, — 
The  man  who  rose  from  nothing. 

Here's  to  the  land  of  lakes  and  pines, 
On  which  the  sun  of  freedom  shines, 
Because  we  meet  on  all  our  lines 
The  man  who  rose  from  nothing. 


THE  PINES.  109 


THE  PINES. 

Djl'M  free  at  last,  from  the  city  vast, 
@s  Away  with  the  running  brooks, 
'Mong  the  savage  woods,  and  th'  roaring  floods, 

And  nature's  glorious  nooks  !  , 

The  branches  spread  above  my  head, 

At  my  feet  the  woodbine  twines ; 
All  hail  again  !  in  your  blue  domain, 

Great  brotherhood  of  pines  ! 

Untouched  by  time,  ye  tower  sublime, 

Aloft  on  your  rocky  steep, 
Ye  are  seated  there  like  lords  of  air, 

In  your  council  chambers  deep ; 
On  your  burnished  breasts,  and  your  gleaning  crests, 

A  quiet  halo  shines, 
While  the  torrents  sweep,  and  roar,  and  leap, — 

Great  brotherhood  of  pines  ! 

When  mom  awakes  from  out  the  lakes, 

Ye  pour  your  holy  hymn, 
And  when  dying  day  in  her  mantle  grey, 

With  her  phantoms  round  you  swim  ! 
No  harp  has  the  ring,  and  no  sounding  string 

Such  a  flood  of  song  combines  ; 
Old  Minstrels  ye  of  the  green  woods  be, 

Great  brotherhood  of  pines  ! 

When  storms  are  high  in  the  midnight  sky, 

And  the  wild  waves  lash  the  shore, 
Afar  up  there,  with  your  harps  of  air, 

Ye  join  in  the  wild  uproar. 


110  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 


With  the  groaning  woods,  and  the  moaning  floods, 

Your  awful  voice  combines, 
And  the  deep  refrain  of  the  thunder's  strain, —   • 

Great  brotherhood  of  pines  ! 

By  the  torrent's  brim,  on  the  rainbow's  rim — 

I  climb  to  your  magic  hall ; 
To  hear  you  join  in  the  song  divine, 

Of  the  thund'ring  waterfall. 
While  through  the  screen  of  your  golden  green, 

A  mystic  spirit  shines, 
Hail  one  and  all !  in  your  magic  hall, 

Great  brotherhood  of  pines  ! 


THE  BACKWOODS  PHILOSOPHER.  Ill 

THE  BACKWOODS  PHILOSOPHER. 

^*Ty  ELL,  as  I  said,  I'm  forest  bred, 
^/         A  rough  unculter'd  critter, 
Yet,  in  some  way,  I've  read  per  day 

A  page  of  forest  natur'. 
Among  the  fust  things  I  obsarv'd — 

My  mates  it  didn't  strike — 
What  ar  we  do,  we'll  nar  get  two 

That  see  a  tree  alike. 

Folks  may  be  honest  and  sincere, 

And  may  ha'  eyes  to  see  through. 
And  hold  a  principle  as  dear, 

Tho'  they  don't  see  as  we  do. 
Now  that's  a  very  leetle  fact, 

It  seems  as  plain  as  prattle ; 
Would  folks  but  see't  'twould  save  much  heat 

And  many,  a  many  a  battle. 

Another  thing  which  took  my  eye 

Was  Natur's  moral  statur  ; 
For  Natur  will  not  tell  a  lie, 

Nor  won't  have  lies,  will  Natur ; 
A  tree  will  fall  the  way  she's  cut, 

No  words  aside  can  win  her, 
And  smash  you  splay,  if  in  her  way, 

Let  you  be  saint  or  sinner. 

And  when  you  go  to  square  her  up, 

Nar  heed  what  fools  may  say, 
Cut  to  the  chalk,  aye,  that's  the  talk  ! 

Let  chips  strike  who  they  may. 


112  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 

He  who  would  talk  you  off  the  straight, 
You  tell  him  that  he  drivels ; 

The  right  is  right !  'twill  stand  the  light, 
Be't  God's  law  or  the  devil's. 

• 
And  he's  no  better  than  a  fool, 

A  little  silly  critter, 
Who  thinks  by  cunnin'  to  out-pull 
Or  cheat  Old  Mother  Natur. 
Another  thing  which  did  me  strike — 

While  through  the  forest  goin' — 
Your  timber's  always  somethin'  like 
The  soil  on  which  it's  growin'. 

The  elm  will  root  em  firm,  I  ween, 

'Mong  rocks,  and  he  will  thrive 
Upon  the  spot  where  maples  green 

Could  hardly  keep  alive. 
And  he  will  thrive  and  flourish  thar, 

And  to  the  winds  he'll  call, 
And  talk  wi'  spirits  o'  the  air, 

Beside  the  waterfall. 

Yon  oak's  exposed  to  wind  and  rain, 

To  every  storm  that  swells, 
So  every  fibre,  leaf  and  grain, 

His  long  life-battle  tells. 
He  gathers  strength  from  every  shock, 

And  tougher  still  he  grows, 
And  looks  defiance  from  the  rock, 

To  every  storm  that  blows. 

While  far  within  the  shelterin'  vale, 

The  lady-maple  leans, 
And  tells  her  quiet  peaceful  tale, 

To  gentle  evergreens. 


THE  BACKWOODS  PHILOSOPHER.  113 

Close  by,  a  brother  all  misplaced, 

Tn  an  unfriendly  soil, 
He  fights  and  frets,  until  he  gets 

Demoralized  the  while. 

Then  sad  and  lone,  and  woe-begone, 

To  every  wind  he  sighs, 
Resigns  the  strife  for  light  and  life, 

And  sullenly  he  dies. 
So,  like  the  tree,  what  we  would  be 

Depends  not  on  our  skill, 
And  wrong,  or  right,  are  we,  despite 

Our  wishes  or  our  will. 


114  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 


OLD  CANADA ;  OR,  GEE  BUCK  GEE. 

tHE  country's  goin'  fast  to  ruin  ! 
This  edication's  our  undoing 
We're  coniin'  to  a  pretty  pass, 
Our  boys  who  scarce  have  been  to  grass, 
Have  all  gone  off,  bound  to  the  teachers, 
Or  city  clerks,  or  peddlin'  preachers  ; 
Our  darters  too,  are  quite  Sultanas, 
All  strummin'  on  them  cuss'd  pianos, 
And  try  to  trip  us  up  with  rules 
They've  learn'd  away  at  Grammar  Schools, 
And  look  upon  the  likes  o'  me — 
Who  nurs'd  them  criters  on  my  knee — 
As  far  beneath  them, — Gee  Buck  Gee  ! 

And  then  they're  all  Book  Farmers  too  ! 
And  they  would  teach  me  what  to  do; 
Manurin',  ploughin',  drainin',  seedin', 
All  farmin's  to  be  done  by  readin' ! 

0  Lord  !  O  Lord  !  it  makes  me  mad, 
When  every  striplin'  o'  a  lad, 

And  every  edk-ated  ass, 

Who  scarce  knows  growin'  wheat  from  grass, 

Must  teach  the  like  o'  me  to  farm, 

Wi'  Latin  names  as  long's  my  arm  ; 

Them  criters  teach  the  like  o'  me  ? 

Who  farm'd  ere  they  could  reach  my  knee, 

Aint  it  presumption  ? — Gee  Buck  Gee  S 

1  tell  ye  what !  them  and  their  books, 
Are  getting  to  be  perfect  pukes  ; 


OLD  CANADA  ;  OB,  GEE  BUCK  GEE.  115 

And  sure  enough  this  edication 
Will  be  the  ruin  o'  the  nation ; 
We'll  not  ha'  men,  it's  my  opinion, 
Fit  to  defend  our  New  Dominion ; 
Not  one  o'  them  can  swing  an  axe, 
But  they  will  bore  you  with  the  facts ; 
I'd  send  the  criters  off  to  work, 
But  that,  by  any  means  they'll  shirk  ! 
Grandad  to  some  o'  them  I  be, 
0,  that's  what  riles  and  vexes  me  ! 
Ain't  it  a  caution  ? — Gee  Buck  Gee  ! 


*"WW\ 


116  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 


COMPANIONS   IN  SOLITUDE,  OR  REMINIS- 
CENCES OF  THE  BUSH. 


fHIS  generation  ne'er  can  know 
The  toils  we  had  to  undergo, 
While  laying  the  great  forests  low. 

For  many  a  weary  year  I  wrought, 
With  poverty  and  hardship  fought, 
And  hardly  had  I  time  for  thought. 

In  every  stroke,  in  every  blow, 
In  every  towering  pine  laid  low, 
I  felt  a  triumph  o'er  a  foe. 

Each  knotty  hemlock  old  and  brown, 
Each  elm  in  thunder  hurling  down, 
A  jewel  added  to  my  crown. 

If  e'er  my  heart  within  me  died, 

Then  up  would  start  my  stubborn  pride, 

And  dash  the  coward  thoughts  aside  ! 

And  hope  kept  singing  in  mine  ear, 
"  Be  brave  !  for  what  hast  thou  to  fear — 
The  heavens  are  watching  o'er  thee  here  !' 

But  fighting  with  those  stubborn  facts, 
My  spirit  paid  a  heavy  tax, — 
My  soul  grew  callous  as  my  axe. 


l/ 


COMPANIONS  IN  SOLITUDE.  117 

But  still  some  wandering  sympathy, 

Some  song — learned  on  my  mother's  knee — 

Came  with  the  bread  of  life  to  me. 


Save,  for  those  rain-drops  from  on  high — 
Those  fountains  opened  in  the  sky — 
My  life  streams  would  have  all  gone  dry. 

Until  that  time,  I  little  knew 
What  books  for  lonely  hearts  can  do, 
Till  spirits  round  my  hearth  they  drew. 


My  cabin  seemed  a  whole  world  wide  ! 
Kings  entered  in  without  their  pride, 
And  warriors  laid  their  swords  aside  ! 


There  came  the  Saxon,  there  the  Celt, 
And  all  had  knelt  where  I  had  knelt, 
For  all  had  felt  what  I  had  felt ! 


I  saw, — from  clime  and  creed  apart, — 
Still  heaving  'neath  their  robes  of  art — 
The  universal  human  heart. 


And  Homer,  and  Sir  Walter  Scott — 
They  entered  in  my  humble  cot, 
And  cheered  with  tales  my  lowly  lot. 

And  Burns  came  singing  songs  divine, 
His  heart  and  soul  in  every  line  ; 
A  glorious  company  was  mine  ! 


118  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 


T  was  a  brother  to  the  great ! 
Shakespeare  himself  on  ine  did  wait, 
With  leaves  torn  from  the  Book  of  Fate. 

They  asked  me  not  of  rank  or  creed, 
And  yet  supplied  my  spirit's  need; 
O,  they  were  comforters  indeed  ! 

And  showed  me  by  their  magic  art 
Those  awful  things  at  which  we  start — 
That  hover  round  the  human  heart ; 

Fate,  ever  watching  with  her  shears  ! 
And  mixing  all  our  hopes  with  fears, 
And  drenching  all  our  joys  in  tears. 

They  showed  how  contradictions  throng ; 
How  by  our  weakness  we  are  strong ; 
And  how  we're  righted  by  the  wrong: — 

Unveiled  new  regions  to  my  sight, 
And  made  the  weary  winter's  night, 
A  perfect  revel  of  delight ! 


YOUNG  CANADA.  119 


YOUNG  CANADA,  OR  JACK'S  AS  GOOD  AS 
HIS  MASTER. 

Qui. 

JTj,  LOVE  this  land  of  forest  grand  ! 
<3k     The  land  where  labour's  free  ; 
Let  others  roam  away  from  home, 

Be  this  the  land  for  me  ! 
Where  no  one  moils,  and  strains  and  toils, 

That  snobs  may  thrive  the  faster  ; 
And  all  are  free,  as  men  should  be, 

And  Jack's  as  good's  his  master  ! 

Where  none  are  slaves,  that  lordly  knaves 

May  idle  all  the  year ; 
For  rank  and  caste  are  of  the  past,- — 

They'll  never  flourish  here  ! 
And  Jew  or  Turk  if  he'll  but  work, 

Need  never  fear  disaster  ; 
He  reaps  the  crop  he  sowed  in  hope, 

For  Jack's  as  good's  his  master. 

Our  aristocracy  of  toil 

Have  made  us  what  you  see — 
The  nobles  of  the  forge  and  soil, 

With  ne'er  a  pedigree  ! 
It  makes  one  feel  himself  a  man, 

His  very  blood  leaps  faster, 
Where  wit  or  worth's  preferred  to  birth. 

And  Jack's  as  good's  his  master  ! 

Here's  to  the  land  of  forests  grand  '. 

The  land  where  labour's  free  ; 
Let  others  roam  away  from  home, 

Be  this  the  land  for  me  ! 
For  here  'tis  plain,  the  heart  and  brain. 

The  very  soul  grows  vaster  ! 
Where  men  are  free,  as  they  should  be, 

And  Jack's  as  good's  his  master  ! 


120  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 


THE  OLD  SETTLER'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  OLD 
LOG  HOUSE. 

EY  Old  Log-House,  I  love  thee  still ! 
I  left  thee  sore  against  my  will ; 


against  my 
My  new  house,  finer  tho'  it  be, 
Can  never  be  as  dear  to  me  ; 
For  memory's  spell  is  o'er  thee  cast, 
And  I  must  love  thee  to  the  last. 
For  life's  first  breath  in  thee  I  drew, 
In  thee  from  youth  to  manhood  grew, 
All  early  thoughts  are  twined  with  thee, 
And  thy  o'erhanging  maple  tree  ! 
It  seemed  to  me  no  other  place 
Had  ever  half  so  sweet  a  face  ; 
And  on  the  winter  nights  and  days, 
No  hearth  had  half  so  bright  a  blaze 
Among  the  trees  no  taper  shone 
With  half  the  welcome  of  thine  own, 
And  when  from  thee  I  went  away, 
In  sunny  southern  lands  to  stray, 
'Mid  all  their  bloom,  my  heart  would  flee,- 
Mine  own  log  cabin — back  to  thee  ! 

Tho'  now  thy  household  gods  are  gone, 

Still  often  I  come  here  alone, 

And,  on  thy  hearthstone,  cold  at  last, 

I  muse  and  ponder  on  the  past ! 

Till  parents,  brothers,  sisters  dear, 

In  all  their  beauty  re-appear, 

Despite  of  death,  the  joyous^train 

Comes  back  to  love  me  once  again  ! 

I  see  my  father  in  his  chair  ! 

My  mother  with  her  knitting  there  ! 

The  children  crowding  round,  to  hear 
The  stories  that  we  loved  so  dear; 


THE  OLD  SETTLER'S  ADDRESS.  121 


Or  list'ning  to  that  martial  song 
Which  rushes  yet  my  veins  along, 
Re-counting  deeds  of  heroes  bold, 
In  Britain's  battles  won  of  old. 

And  many  a  happy  night  I  ween, 

Beneath  thine  old  roof  tree  I've  seen ; 

For  after  every  logging  bee 

The  neighbours  all  would  meet  in  thee ; 

For  when  the  hard  day's  work  was  done, 

The  logging  contests  lost  and  won, 

We  gave  ourselves  to  social  mirth, 

And  banished  sorrow  from  the  hearth  : 

And  ev'ry  happy  girl  and  boy 

Danc'd  till  thy  rafters  shook  with  joy. 

A  thousand  recollections  rush, 

And  tears  into  mine  eyelids  gush, 

When  thinking  of  the  manly  race 

Who  first  were  settled  in  this  place, 

Uncursed  with  thought,  which  has  destroyed 

Our  social  joj^s,  and  left  a  void — 

A  dreary  void  within  the  heart 

Which  cannot  be  supplied  with  art ! 

And  here,  upon  my  wedding  day, 

No  palace  ever  look'd  so  gay  ; 

With  evergreens  and  wild  flowers  dress'd, 

You  smil'd  a  welcome  to  each  guest ; 

And  well  I  mind  the  joyous  cheer 

Which  welcom'd  home  my  Mary  dear ; 

And  how  the  youngsters  danc'd  and  sung 

Until  thy  very  rafters  rung, 

And  all  the  world  to  me  did  seem 

As  floating  in  a  blessed  dream  ! 

And  here,  while  she  remained  on  earth, 
She  was  the  sunlight  of  thy  hearth  ; 


122  IDYLS  OF  TEE  DOMINION. 


And  here — beneath  thine  old  roof  tree, 
She  nurs'd  my  children  on  her  knee  ; 
There,  with  the  very  smile  she  wore, 
She  comes  up  to  me  as  of  yore, 
As  if  she  still  would  cheer  the  mate 
She  left  at  last  so  desolate ; 
And  all  the  children,  as  of  yore, 
Are  romping  round  her  on  the  floor  ; 
There  Mary  !  with  her  eyes  of  blue, 
And  heart  so  tender  and  so  true, — 
Who  pass'd  to  brighter  worlds  away, 
While  yet  her  life  was  in  its  May  : 
And  Charlie,  with  his  face  so  fair, 
His  large  blue  eyes  and  shining  hair, 
And  ringing  laugh,  which  seemed  to  say,- 

"  O,  life  is  all  a  summer's  day ! " 
I  hear  him  singing  in  the  lane — 

"  Royal  Charlie's  come  again  !" 
How  strange  !  that  he  so  light  and  gay, 
Was  called  the  very  first  away. 

But,  ah  !  the  vision's  past  and  gone  ! 
And  I  am  standing  all  alone 
Upon  thy  hearth  all  desolate, 
To  sigh  o'er  the  decrees  of  Fate. 

Thy  walls  are  mouldering  to  decay, 
Like  all  things,  thou  shalt  pass  away. 
And  here,  the  grass  shall  flourish  green, 
And  nought  to  tell  of  what  has  been. 
But  sacred  thou  shalt  ever  be — 
No  hand  unfix  thine  old  roof  tree  ! 
And  here  I'll  often  come  and  sit, 
While  evening  shadows  round  me  flit, 
Till  as  of  yore  the  joyous  train 
Are  all  around  me  once  again. 


THE  MAPLE  AND  THE  THISTLE.  123 

THE  MAPLE  AND  THE  THISTLE,  OR  RODERICK 
OF  THE  HAMMER. 

STALWART.  Scot,  a  tower  I  wot, 
Of  sinew,  bone  and  muscle, 
Came  to  our  land  of  forests  grand, 

To  give  our  lads  a  tussle ; 
For,  in  the  land  of  mountains  grand, — 

The  lovely  land  that  bore  him, 
As  champion  he  still  bore  the  gree, 
And  carried  all  before  him. 

So  Donald's  challenge,  far  and  near, 

The  telegraph  did  carry, 
At  length  it  reached  the  willing  ear 

Of  Roderick  of  Glengarry  ; 
Who's  of  a  race  that's  no  disgrace 

Unto  the  land  that  bore  them, 
Fresh  as  the  vine,  straight  as  the  pine, 

Or  maple  waving  o'er  them. 

This  Roderick  Ban  has  all  the  man 

In  every  limb  and  feature, 
Not  strength  alone,  and  nerve  and  bone, 

But  Science,  Art  and  Nature  ! 
Tho'  Donald  is  as  steeve  a  chiel 

As  stalks  beneath  the  carry, 
As  an  athlete,  he  can't  compete 

With  Roderick  of  Glengarry  ! 

So  Roderick  dares  him  to  the  test, 

In  any  style  he  chooses, 
The  canny  Scot  can  not  be  caught, 

And  utterly  refuses : 
His  reputation  on  a  cast 

Wise  Donald  will  not  stake  it — 
For  Roderick  Ban's  the  better  man, 

In  any  way  he'll  take  it. 


124  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 

For  Roderick's  feat,  it  is  a  treat 

That's  worth  a  long  day's  going, 
Words  cannot  ring  his  mighty  swing, — 

It's  the  sublime  of  throwing  ! 
Transformed  into  a  living  wheel, — 

The  demon  of  the  centre, 
He  gathers  power,  yet  guides  the  steel 

Where  mortal  dare  not  enter. 

As  if  the  whirlwind  in  its  wrath 

Its  awful  power  had  lent  him, 
He  gathers  on  his  whirling  path 

A  terrible  momentum ; 
While  every  heart  is  still  as  death, 

In  fearful  expectation, 
He  hurls  it  on  its  souuding  path, 

'Mid  shouts  of  admii-ation. 

E'en  while  I  sing  yon  mighty  swing, — 

My  Muse  she  reels  and  stammers, 
As  in  a  swound  she's  whirled  around  — 

O,  he's  the  King  of  Hammers  ! 
Ah,  Donald,  at  your  highest  heats, 

You  can't  compete  with  Rory, 
Nor  throw  around  your  greatest  feats 

Yon  wild  poetic  glory  : 

Which  silences  all  empty  vaunt, 

Defying  critic's  clamour — 
And  henceforth  he  surnamed  shall  be 

"  Fair  Roderick  of  the  Hammer  !" 
Long  may  he  live  to  wear  the  prize* — 

The  golden  badge  of  honour  : 
Then  join  with  me  in  three  times  three, 

"  The  Hero  and  the  Donor  !" 


•  Presented  by  the  Hon.  George  Brown. 


THE  PIC -NIC.  125 


THE  PIC-NIC. 

OW  morning  fair,  with  golden  hair 
Is  through  the  pine  woods  streaming ; 
And  of  a  day  of  mirth  and  play, 

The  j-oungsters  all  are  dreaming  ; 
No  sound  of  axe  salutes  the  ear  ; 

The  ox  set  free  from  logging  ; 
And  neighbours  all,  both  great  and  small, 
Are  to  the  Pic-nic  jogging. 

The  girls  '^nd  boys  how  they  rejoice, 

So  merrily  they're  driving, 
And  far  and  wide  from  every  side, 

In  happy  pairs  arriving. 
Bill's  mounted  on  his  idol  there — 

With  boughs  he  has  arrayed  her, 
And  boasts  the  virtues  of  "  that  mare," 

To  Dicky,  the  horse-trader. 

Dick  stumps  him  just  to  try  a  heat, 

"  Come,  bring  your  scarecrow  hither," 
And  in  such  loving  converse  sweet, 

They  trot  along  together: 
They  pass  along  the  ridge  of  beech, 

And  by  the  hemlocks  hoary, 
And  leave  the  noble  troop  of  pines, 

All  towering  in  their  glory. 

They  reach  the  grove  of  maples  green, 

Beside  the  winding  river, — 
Still  at  the  song,  it  sung  so  long 

To  Red  Men  gone  for  ever  ! 
And  it  will  leap  and  laugh  along 

As  gay  and  happy  hearted, 


126  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 

And  it  will  sing  this  very  song 
When  we  too,  have  departed. 

A  table's  spread  beneath  the  trees — 

Some  busily  partaking, 
While  others  swing,  or  romp  and  sing, 

All  bent  on  merry-making : 
The  old  folks  talk  about  the  crops ; 

The  little  boys  are  larking, 
And  with  the  fair  young  creatures 

The  lads  are  busy  sparking. 

They  form  a  circle  round  the  spring — 

The  sparkling  waters  quaffing, 
All  poking  fun,  and  ne'er  a  one 

Of  all  can  keep  from  laughing 
At  am'rous  John,  still  sparking  on — 

At  sixty-two  a  wanter — 
Or  roaring  at  the  great  exploits 

Of  Bill  the  mighty  hunter. 

His  treeing  coons,  'neath  Autumn  moons, 

His  fishings  and  his  forays, 
His  great  affairs  with  angry  bears, 

His  terrible  wolf  stories  ; 
When  Fred  comes  with  his  violin, 

By  young  and  old  invited, 
With  shouts  of  joy,  the  bashful  boy 

They  circle  round,  delighted. 

Tho'  he  is  but  a  backwoods  lad — 

A  native  born  musician, 
What  strains  he  brings  from  those  mere  strings  ; 

0  !  he's  a  real  magician  !| 
He  plays  a  quick  and  merry  tune, 

With  joy  each  eye  is  glancing, 
How  be  appeals  to  all  their  heels, 

And  sets  them  all  a  dancing. 


THE  PIG-NTC.  127 


That  mother  with  her  joyous  air, 

Her  baby  how  she  dandles, 
While  Bill  and  Dick  are  dancing  quick, 

And  shouting  out  like  Vandals. 
The  chipmonk  peeps  from  out  the  logs, 

And  wonders  at  the  flurry, 
And  all  amazed,  with  tail  upraised, 

Makes  tracks  in  quite  a  hurry. 

The  grey  owl  opens  up  his  eyes, 

And  looks  in  stupid  wonder, 
While,  through  the  wood,  the  partridge  brood 

Are  rolling  off  like  thunder  ; 
The  old  coon's  in  the  elm  above, 

Pretending  that  he's  sleeping, 
But  with  one  eye,  the  old  boy  sly, 

A  wond'ring  watch  is  keeping. 

Fred's  mood  has  changed,  and  in  the  midst 

Of  all  our  merry  madness, 
He  makes  us  drink,  ere  we  can  think, 

The  deeper  joy  of  sadness  ; 
The  youths  and  maidens  hush  to  hear — 

Tho'  'tis  no  tale  of  glory — 
And  drink  in  with  a  greed}'  ear 

That  simple  back  wood's  story. 

His  voice  he  flings  among  the  strings 

That  seem  with  sorrow  laden, 
Oh  !  hear  the  sighs,  and  wailing  cries 

Of  the  poor  hapless  maiden  : 
"Ah,  thou  art  laid  in  thy  death  bed, 

Beneath  the  grassy  cover  ; 
Why  did  the  tree  not  fall  on  me 

Which  fell  on  thee,  my  lover  ?  " 


128  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 

That  wail  of  woe,  so  long  and  low, 

Is  in  the  distance  dying, 
And  there  the  rude  sons  of  the  wood, 

Are  all  around  him  sighing  : 
Yes,  there  they  stand,  the  rude  rough  band, 

Untutor'd  by  the  graces, 
As  spell-bound  there  by  that  wild  air, 

Tears  streaming  down  their  faces  ; 

And  while  their  hearts  within  them  leap — 

Those  hearts  unused  to  weeping, — 
0,  what  a  silence  still  and  deep, 

The  maples  all  are  keeping  ! 
The  grove  is  all  a  magic  hall, 

And  he,  the  necromancer, — 
The  master  of  the  wizard  spells 

To  which  our  spirits  answer. 

Time  steals  along,  with  tale  and  song, 

Until  the  warning  shadow 
Is  stretching  seen,  from  maples  green, 

And  creeping  o'er  the  meadow  ; 
Old  folks  begin  to  think  'tis  time 

That  they  are  homeward  going, 
And  so  they  sing  a  parting  rhyme, 

With  hearts  all  overflowing. 

The  boys  must  see  the  girls  to  home, 

So  they  hitch  up  for  starting, 
And  merrily  they  drive  along, 

So  have  a  kiss  at  parting : 
As  Dick  trots  home,  that  little  song 

He  can't  keep  from  repeating, 
While  Bill  declares,  "them  backwood  aire 

Are  good  as  going  to  meeting  !" 


TO  A  II  I'M  MING  BIRD.  129 


TO  A  HUMMING  BIRD. 

.^I^J  USH  thee,  hush  thee  !  not  a  word  ! 

ob^     Tis  the  lovely  humming-bird 

Like  a  spirit  of  the  air 

Coming  from — we  know  not  where  ! 

Bursting  on  our  raptured  sight 

Like  a  vision  of  delight — 

Circled  in  a  radiant  ring, 

0,  thou  glory  on  the  wing  ! 

Thou'rt  no  thing  of  mortal  birth, 

Far  too  beautiful  for  earth, 

But  a  thing  of  happy  dreams, 

Rainbow  glories,  heavenl}'-  gleams, 

Something  fallen  from  out  the  sky, 

To  delight  man's  heart  and  eye, 

In  this  weary  world  of  ours — 

Wand' ring  spirit  of  the  flowers  ! 

Thou'rt  a  wonder  and  a  joy 

To  that  happy  little  boy, 

As,  in  ecstasy  he  stands 

Gazing  with  uplifted  hands ; 

In  a  rapture  of  surprise, 

He  devours  thee  with  his  eyes ; 

Thou  shalt  haunt  him  many  a  day, 

Even  when  his  locks  are  gray, 

Thou'lt  be  a  remember'd  joy — 

Happy,  happy  little  boy  ! 

Yonder  old  man's  face  the  while 
Brightens  with  a  welcome  smile, 
Toiling  at  his  daily  duty, 
He  is  startled  by  thy  beauty  : 


130  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 

Out  of  all  his  toils  and  cares, 
Thou  has  ta'en  him  unawares — 
Ta'en  him  in  a  moment  back, 
O'er  a  long  and  weary  track. 
Once  again,  the  mountains  gray, 
In  that  dear  land  far  away, 
And  his  father's  humble  cot, 
Round  him  in  a  vision  float — 
And  despite  of  age  and  pain, 
He's  a  little  boy  again. 

Welcome,  Welcome  !  happy  sprite, 
Welcome  !  spirit  of  delight ; 
Deeper  than  the  joy  of  wine, 
Or  the  ancient  songs  divine ; 
For  my  spirit  thou  dost  carry 
Back  into  the  realms  of  Fairy. 
Round  my  heart  thou  com'st  to  weave 
Things  we  hope  for  and  believe, 
Things  we've  longed  for  since  our  birth, 
Things  we've  never  found  on  earth  ; 
0  how  weary  would  we  be, 
Save  for  visitants  like  thee  ! 

But,  like  pleasure,  lovely  thing, 
Thou  art  ever  on  the  wing  • 
Like  the  things  we  wish  to  stay, 
Thou'rt  the  first  to  pass  away — 
Flying  like  our  hopes  the  fleetest, 
Passing  like  the  joy  that's  sweetest; 
Even  now  like  music's  tone, 
Thou'rt  a  glory  come  and  gone. 


"  WEE  DAVIE  LOW."  131 


"WEE  DAVIE  LOW." 

[A  boy  eight  years  of  age,  residing  at  Edmonton,  who  accidentally 
lost  both  of  his  arms  by  a  reaping  machine.] 


fHIS  world's  a  medley  of  joy  and  of  woe, 
Of  wealth  and  of  want,  of  the  high  and  the  low  ; 
Some  dancing  and  tripping  to  mirth's  joyous  strain, 
While  others  are  writhing  in  anguish  and  pain ; 
There  are  some  never  taste  of  misfortune's  sad  cup, 
Others  destined  to  drink,  yea,  its  very  dregs  up  ! 
A  strange  panorama  still  moving  along, 

With  big  hearts  and  small  ones,  with  right  and  with  wrong. 
With  saint  and  with  sinner,  with  wise  man  and  clown, 
And  those  up  to-day  may  to-morrow  be  down ; 
What  may  be  awaiting  us,  no  one  can  know, — 
The  humble  exalted,  the  proud  be  laid  low ; 
We're  all  God's  poor  children  dependent  alike, 
There  are  none  raised  so  high  that  His  arm  cannot  strike. 
And  it  ought  to  humble  the  high  haughty  brow, 
To  think  of  such  sufferers  as  Wee  Davie  Low. 

His  life  has  been  blasted,  poor  boy  !  at  the  start, 

And  nothing  can  help  him  in  science  or  art ; 

Unarmed,  all  unfit  for  the  battle  of  life, 

To  him  it  must  be  a  long  terrible  strife ; 

The  sweet  joys  of  childhood  he  never  can  know, 

Its  games,  and  its  gambols,  he'll  have  to  forego ; 

And  then,  what  a  terrible  prospect  ahead  ! 

Through  life  like  a  babe  to  be  tended  and  fed, 

Well  might  it  be  written  upon  his  young  brow — 

"  There  have  few  been  afflicted  like  Wee  Davie  Low." 


132  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 

God  gives  his  unfortunates  into  our  care, 

He  gives  us  our  strength,  just  their  burdens  to  bear; 

When  fortune  smiles  on  us,  and  joys  overflow, 

Let  us  never  forget  there  are  others  in  woe ; 

In  the  struggle  for  honour,  for  power  or  for  pelf, 

Let  us  still  have  a  few  thoughts  that  soar  above  self ! 

Of  all  human  beings,  they're  surely  the  best, 

Who  cheer  the  forsaken,  and  shield  the  oppressed  ; 

And  Christ  was  not  found  'mong  the  great  and  the  famed  ; 

He  went  'mong  the  poor,  the  despised,  and  the  maimed  ; 

He  was  found  with  His  great  heart  and  meek  humble  brow, 

Bringing  comfort  to  sufferers  like  Wee  Da  vie  Low! 

When  Death  comes  at  last,  as  he'll  come  to  us  all  ! 
And  these  garments  of  flesh  from  the  spirit  shall  fall, 
The  question  won't  be  then — "  Of  what  sect  were  you  ?" 
But,  "  For  my  afflicted  ones  what  did  ye  do  ?" 
Did  ye  soothe  the  forsaken  when  hope  did  depart  ? 
Did  ye  drop  the  warm  balm  on  the  poor  bleeding  heart  ? 
Did  ye  lighten  the  burden,  and  bathe  the  sad  brow 
Of  poor  little  sufferers  like  Wee  Davie  Low  ? 

This  world  shall  perish,  and  pass  like  a  breath, 
But  our  deeds  they  shall  follow  us  even  in  death  ! 
If  bad,  they  shall  dog  us  behind  the  dark  veil, 
And  with  their  reproaches  our  spirits  assail ! 
If  good,  they're  eternal  and  never  can  fade, — 
Of  them  the  bright  mansions  immortal  are  made  ! 
Words  spoken  in  kindness,  the  tear  and  the  sigh, 
Are  the  gems  that  adorn  the  bright  mansions  on  high, 
And  charity  turns  to  a  wreath  on  the  brow, 
When  given  to  sufferers  like  Wee  Davie  Low. 


SPRING.  133 


SPRING. 

3&.0ME  let  us  sing  !  for  the  merry  Spring 
Is  here  with  her  joyous  train; 
And  the  little  school-boy  claps  his  hands  with  joy 

For  the  blue-bird's  come  again. 
The  flowers  peep  forth, — for  the  smiling  earth 

Her  winter's  chain  is  breaking, — 
And  all  things  fair,  in  earth  and  air, 

To  life  and  joy  awaking. 

The  insects  creep  from  their  winter's  sleep, 

The  air  has  a  mystic  humming; 
We  hear  the  beat  of  unnumbered  feet, 

To  the  joyous  revel  coming. 
The  dark  brown  thrash  leaves  the  lowly  bush, 

And  mounts  to  the  maple's  branches  ; 
With  joy  he  sees  the  budding  trees, 

And  into  song  he  launches. 

The  squirrel  too,  makes  a  great  ado, 

For  he  hears  the  song  so  mellow, 
And  sing  he  would,  if  he  only  could, 

For  he's  a  happy  fellow : 
How  nimbly  he  gets  up  the  tree, 

And  leaps  among  the  branches, 
Where  proudly  he  looks  down  on  me, 

And  chatters  on  his  haunches. 

With  burning  breast,  and  snowy  crest, 

The  woodpecker  loves  to  follow, 
And  how  he  raps,  and  tap,  tap,  taps 

On  every  heart  that's  hollow. 


134  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 

The  pewee  and  the  chicadee, 
The  phcebe,  and  the  swallow, 

Are  in  the  air,  on  pinions  rare, 
Or  romping  in  the  fallow. 

And  there  the  crow  hops  to  and  fro, 

All  in  his  coat  so  sooty ; 
And  hear  yon  jay  !  despite  his  bray — 

0,  he's  a  perfect  beauty  ! 
He  knows  it  too,  as  well  as  you, 

And  trims  up  in  all  weathers, 
Just  see  him  stride  with  peacock  pride 

Of  his  collar,  cap,  and  feathers. 

Ah,  Kobin  dear  !  you're  welcome  here, 

Come,  tell  us  where  you've  been,  lad  ? 
How  time  has  past,  since  we  saw  you  last, 

And  what  sights  you  have  seen  lad. 
And  O,  ye  bands  from  southern  lands, 

Of  roving  little  fellows, 
That  duly  here,  with  spring  appear, 

Of  mirth  and  joy  to  tell  us  : 

Ye're  welcome  here  !  my  minstrels  dear, — 

My  little  wildwood  rangers, 
That  by  your  star  are  led  afar, 

To  sing  your  songs  to  strangers  : 
Ye're  a  jovial  lot !  what  a  happy  thought 

Aye  with  the  spring  to  travel, 
With  skies  of  blue,  the  whole  year  through, 

And  a  never  ending  revel  ! 

Ye  come  to  cheer  our  spirits  here, 
For  there's  a  charm  about  you : 

And  oh  !  to  me,  the  woods  would  be 
A  dreary  waste  without  you. 


GOING  TO  THE  BUSH.  135 


GOING  TO  THE  BUSH. 


fHIS  settlement  is  getting  old, 
And  just  a  leettle  crowdy  ; 
I'll  not  loaf  round  this  worn  out  ground, 

Like  any  idle  rowdy. 
There's  few  like  me,  can  fell  a  tree, 

I'm  bully  at  the  axe  ; 
I'm  twenty-one,  its  time  dad's  son 
Was  up  and  making  tracks. 

Dad  says,  that  when  he's  dead  and  gone, 

I'll  have  this  farm  of  his'n, 
If  I'll  but  stay,  and  work  away, 

Since  market  stuffs  have  risen. 
That's  too  onsartain,  and  besides 

I'll  never  wish  him  dead, — 
Not  fond  of  pelf — yet  for  myself 

I  want  to  go  a-head. 

I'll  chop  a  homestead  o'  my  own, 

The  first  thing  that  I'll  do, 
And  raise  a  shanty  right  away, 

With  room  enough  for  two. 
I'll  hunt  me  up  some  neighbour  gal — 

For  I  wont  live  alone  ; 
And  there  in  joy,  without  alloy, 

Raise  chickens  o'  my  own. 

Now,  let  me  see — who  will  it  be, 

To  whom  I'll  give  the  call  ? 
I'll  surely  find  one  to  my  mind, 

When  I've  the  pick  of  all ! 


136  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 


I'm  a  six-footer  in  my  socks — 

Tho'  tanned  a  leetle  yeller ; 
Yet  after  all,  what  gals  would  call, 

A  rather  handsom'  feller. 

Well,  there's  that  Buckley  gal — but  she's 

Too  slow  upon  her  feet ; 
She'd  be  no  use,  back  in  the  bush, 

With  nothing  but  conceit. 
There's  Laura  Larkings — she  won't  do, 

For  she's  both  cross  and  cranky  ; 
I  know  she'd  shirk  all  kinds  of  work, 

Like  any  down-east  Yankee. 

There's  Mary  Ann,  smart  gal  I  swan  ! 

And  good  too,  I  consider ; 
But,  then  you  see,  it  cannot  be, 

'Cause  I  won't  have  a  widder. 
And  there  is  Sal,  a  tidy  gal ! 

A  favorite  o'  my  mother's ; 
But  then  I  would  be  eaten  up, 

With  all  her  loafing  brothers. 

And  there's  the  Reeve's  young  daughter  too, 

That  gal's  got  quite  affected  ! 
And  O,  what  airs  she  always  wears, 

Since  her  dad  was  elected. 
And  how  she  squalls,  at  what  she  calls 

"  Her  sacred  songs  so  charming ;" 
But,  O  my  stars  !  them  heavenly  airs 

Are  really  quite  alarming. 

There's  Liz — but  she  won't  do  for  me  ! 

For  she's  her  mother's  daughter, 
Whose  tongue  has  kept  this  settlement 

For  years  in  boiling  water. 


GOING  TO  THE  BUSH.  137 

A  handsom'  gal  tho'  she  may  be — 

And  very  few  are  smarter — 
We  went  to  school,  but  eould'nt  pull, 

For  she's  a  regular  Tarter. 

There's  Nancy  Ann,  the  gal  I  swan  ' 

Jist  laughing  ripe,  and  mellor ; 
A  perfect  brick  !  she'll  do  right  slick  ! 

Lord,  I'm  a  lucky  feller. 
I  mind,  when  old  schoolmaster  frowned, 

And  shook  the  blue-beech  o'er  me, 
She  took  my  part,  and  bless  her  heart ! 

She  lied  like  sixty  for  me. 

Yes,  Nan  shall  be  the  gal  for  me  ! 

A  clever-handed  gal ! 
I'll  get  her  too,  with  small  ado, 

I'm  certain  sure  I  shall. 
Then  here's  for  Nan  !  she's  mine  I  swan  ! 

And  we'll  have  no  delaying , 
Hitched  right  away  !  that's  what  I  say  ! 

And  start  the  first  o'  sleighing. 


138  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 


OLD  HOSS. 


OU  educated  folks,  no  doubt, 
At  spinning  yarns  are  bosses  ; 
Well,  for  some  trade,  each  man  is  made, 

I'm  number  one  at  hosses. 
I'm  known  all  o'er  the  township,  sir, 

By  hired  hand  and  boss  ; 
As  I  go  by,  the  children  cry, — 
"There  goes  the  Great  Old  Hoss  !" 

I  often  wonder — and  to  know 

I'm  really  at  a  loss — 
What  kind  o'  soul  a  man  can  have, 

That  does'nt  love  a  hoss. 
I  love  the  critters  every  one, 

And  that's  the  way,  you  see, 
That  every  critter  'neath  the  sun, 

A  liking  has  for  me. 

If  ever  I  gets  badly  riled, 

If  ever  I  gets  cross — 
'Tis  when  I  see  brutality 

Inflicted  on  a  hoss. 
They  knows  it  too,  as  well  as  you  ; 

And  every  hoss  I  meet, 
Lor  bless  your  heart !  they  nods  to  me, 

As  I  goes  down  the  street. 

A  hoss  sir,  has  ideas  sir  ! 

And  if  you  truly  love  him, 
And  educate  him  as  you  ought, 

You'll  make  a  christian  of  him. 


OLD  II OSS.  139 


A  hoss  sir,  will  be  good  or  bad, 
It's  all  in  how  you  break  him ; 

Hell  be  a  christian  or  a  brute, 
Just  as  you've  sense  to  make  him. 

For  be  we  either  man  or  hoss, 

We've  all  an  inborn  sin  : 
And  what  is  Christianity  ? 

But  just  a  breaking  in. 
Now,  I  gives  all  my  hosses,  sir, 

A  christian  education ; 
And  nar  a  one  but  has  some  sense 

Of  moral  obligation. 

You  see,  the  first  thing  that  I  does, 

I  lets  them  know  I'm  boss, 
All  in  love  too  !  that's  how  I  do, — 

A  woman  or  a  hoss. 
A  hoss  knows  what  a  feller  is, 

Whene'er  he  meets  his  eyes ; 
And  there  he'll  take,  and  no  mistake  ! 

His  measure  and  his  size. 

He  knows  a  man,  that  is  a  man, 

And  feels  that  he's  his  master ; 
Detects  a  knave,  or  coward  slave, 

No  woman  does  it  faster  ! 
He  hates  them  blust'ring  bullies,  sir, 

Them  fellows  that  are  gross  ; 
Be  good  yourself,  if  you  would  be 

Respected  by  a  hoss  ! 

No  doubt  at  times,  as  'mong  ourselves, 

You'll  come  across  a  fool, 
He'll  try  your  temper  fearfully, 

But  you  must  just  keep  cool. 


HO  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 

I've  had  some  heart-breaks  in  my  time — 

Some  awful  stupid  asses  ! 
To  make  them  moral  animals, 

All  human  skill  surpasses. 

For  you  imay  treat  them  as  you  may, 

They're  crooked  as  a  fence  ; 
In  man  or  hoss,  the  want  o'  wants, 

Is  want  o'  common  sense  ! 
But  really  in  a  common  way, 

I'm  very  seldom  beat ; 
And  as  I  say,  thanked  every  day, 

When  walking  down  the  street. 


.-V/\  *V/\^"V>y\j^./\y\^v/\/\j\,-v.-v_-v  f 


YOUNG  BOSS.  141 


YOUNG    HOSS. 

OW  here's  a  hoss,  that  is  a  hoss  ! 
Most  folks  are  of  opinion, 
There  isn't  such  another  hoss 
In  all  our  great  Dominion. 
See,  how  he  paces  like  a  prince  ! 
He's  willing,  and  no  schemer ; 
And  at  a  race,  or  trotting  pace, 
I  tell  you,  he's  a  screamer  ! 

To  see  me  driving  past  the  mail, 

To  reach  the  railway  station, 
And  leaving  it  both  head  and  tail, — 

I  tell  ye,  it's  a  caution. 
And  them  old  farmers,  with  their  wheat, 

They're  to  the  market  teaming; 
How  hopefully  they  jog  along, 

Of  mighty  prices  dreaming  ! 

I  like  to  see  them  old  coons  riled — 

They're  always  plaguey  bosses ! 
You  may  insult  them  if  you  will — 

But  do'nt  insult  their  hosses. 
I  drives  up  quietly  behind, 

And  if  there's  aught  like  sleighing — 
I  gives  the  whip,  and  like  a  ship, 

I  passes  them  hurrahing  '. 

A  mighty  swell  came  out  from  town, 
And  boasted,  O,  tarnation  ! — 

His  mare  would  trot  the  township  down, 
And  gallop  all  creation. 


142  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 


And  how  he  swaggered  all  around  ; 

Stumped  everyone  about  him  ; 
Thinks  I,  the  clown,  I'll  do  him  brown  ! 

I'll  take  the  conceit  out  him. 

We  tabl'd  down  a  x  a-piece, 

And  started  off  like  thunder ; 
Past  him  I  flew,  with  small  ado, 

Which  made  the  critter  wonder. 
And  there  the  miller's  daughter  stood, 

And  how  she  laughed,  0 — cricky  ! 
As  she  would  bust,  to  see  me  fust, 

And  roared  out,  "  well  done  Dickie  !" 

A  gal  so  sensible  as  Sal, 

You'll  seldom  come  across,  sir ; — 
For  ignorant's  the  most  o'  gals ; 

But  well  she  knows  a  hoss,  sir. 
And  a  tarnation  handsom'  gal — 

A  regular  romping  filly  ; 
And  all  the  other  gals  in  town, 

Beside  her  look  so  silly. 

There's  something  in  her,  when  she's  rigg'd 

For  "  Sunday  go  to  meeting ;" 
I  feels  abash'd,  for — 0  be-dashed — 

She  sets  my  heart  a-beatin'. 
And  she  knows  how  to  hold  the  reins — 

Tho'  Damty's  against  her  striving ; 
You  have  to  see't,  it's  so  complete, 

O  Lord,  to  see  her  driving  ! 

With  saddle,  or  without  it,  she 
Can  ride  a  hoss  quite  handy  ; 

I  tell  ye  it's  a  sight  to  see 
Her  mounted  upon  Dandy. 


YOUNG  HOSS. 


143 


We  two  would  work  in  harness  well, 
And  that  I  often  tell  her ; 

And  faith,  I  think,  she  likes  it  well, 
She  loves  a  smart  young  feller. 


Them  fools  of  fellers  up  the  town, 
They  need  not  round  her  slaver- 

For  I've  it  fixed  for  April  next, 
And  I'm  the  boy  will  have  her  ! 


144 


IDYLS  OF  TEE  DOMINION. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OX. 

/\ftND  thou  art  gone,  my  poor  dumb  friend  !  thy  troubles 
*Qj&     all  are  past ; 
A  faithful  friend  thou  wert  indeed,  e'en  to  the  very  last ! 
And  thou  wert  the  prop  of  my  house,  my  children's  pride 

and  pet, — 
Who  now  will  help  to  free  me  from  this  weary  load  of  debt  ? 

Here,  single-handed,  in  the  bush  I  battled  on  for  years, 
My  heart  sometimes  buoyed  up  with  hope,  sometimes  bowed 

down  with  fears. 
I  had  misfortunes  not  a  few,  e'en  from  the  very  first ! 
But  take  them  altogether,  "Bright,"  thy  death's  the  very 

worst ! 

My  great  ambition's  always  been,  to  owe  no  man  a  cent ; 
To  compass  that,  by  honest  toil,  my  every  nerve  I've  bent ; 
Not  for  proud  Independence  !  no,  of  which  the  poets  sing, 
But  for  the  very  love  of  Right — the  justice  of  the  thing. 

To  clear  accounts  within  the  year,  I  saw  my  way  so  plain — 
But  losing  thee,  it  throws  me  back,  God  knows,  how  far 

again ! 
Just  when  I  thought  within  my  grasp,  I  had  success  secure, 
Here  comes  Misfortune   back   again,  resolved  to  keep  me 

poor ! 


I've  no  one  to  depend  upon,  to  do  my  teaming  now  ! 
And  there's  ten  acres  to  be  logged  !  the  fallow  all  to  plough  ! 
How  can  I  ever  clear  the  land — how  can  I  drag  the  wheat  ? 
How  can  I  keep  my  credit  clear — how  can  my  children  eat  ? 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OX.  145 

O,  nothing  in  the  shape  of  work,  was  e'er  a  scare  to  thee  ! 
Thou  wert  the  hero  of  the  field,  at  every  logging  bee  ! 
The  drags,  they  might  be  double  length,  the  maples  monster 

thick, 
Then  give  thee  but  a  "  rolling  hitch,"  and  off  they  went  so 

slick. 

'Twas  but  a  tug, — the  monsters  seem'd  to  thee  as  light's  a 

pin; 
And  how  you  wheeled  them  round  about,  and  how  you 

jerked  them  in; 
The  very  crookedest  of  all,  would  hardly  make  thee  strain, 
And  from  the  teamsters,  every  one,  fresh  laurels  thou  didst 

gain. 

A  gentleness,  a  beauty,  too,  within  thine  eye  did  dwell ! 
It  seemed  to  me  as  beautiful' as  eye  of  the  gazelle ! 
And,  how  thy  hide  of  tawny- white  lost  every  shade  of  dun, 
And  its  brown  streaks  to  velvet  changed,  all  in  the  sum- 
mer's sun. 


And  through  the   Indian   Summer  too,  transfigured  thou 

didst  seem, 
A  great  dumb  giant  looking  through  her  hazy  amber  beam  ! 
And  how  you  loved  in  Spring-time  oft,  to  browse  beside  the 

creek — 
When  all  the  air  was  laden  with  the  odour  of  the  leek. 


How  you  would  stand  and  ruminate,  like  sage  in  thought- 
ful mood  ; 

Or  listen  to  the  children's  shout,  far  in  the  leafy  wood, — 

While  they  were  hunting  flowery  spots,  where  Spring  had 
newly  been, — 

Or  gathering  lilies,  red  and  white,  beneath  the  maples  green  ; 


146  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 

Or,  far  beneath  the  tamarac's  shade — where  many  a  hem- 
lock leans 

Above  the  salt-licks,  in  the  dell,  fringed  with  the  ever- 
greens ; — 

Or  climbing  the  o'erhanging  bank,  or  swinging  from  the 
tree ; 

Or  starting  with  their  ringing  shout,  in  search,  old  friend,  of 
thee! 

And  laden  with  the  spoils  of  Spring,  they'd  follow  up  thy 

track, 
And  wreath  thy  horns  superb  with  flowers,  and  mount  upon 

thy  back ; 
And  how  you  shook  your  tawny  sides,  in  absolute  delight ; 
And  I  have  stood,  and  looked  unseen,  in  rapture  on  the 

sight. 

It  seemed  a  miracle  to  me — for  thou  wert  never  broke — 

How  willingly  you  always  came,  and  bowed  beneath  the 
yoke; 

And  when  Buck — as  he  sometimes  did — would  take  a  stub- 
born fit, 

Then,  in  some  language  of  thine  own,  you  coaxed  him  to 
submit. 

It's  clear  to  me,  that  thou  hadst  got  some  kind  of  moral 
sense, —  <~ 

For  never  didst  thou  sneak,  and  steal,  nor  ever  break  a 
fence, — 

And  when  Buck  would  leap  over  one,  for  he  was  ne'er 
reclaimed, 

How  hurriedly  you  stole  away,  as  perfectly  ashamed  ! 

And  thou  wert  so  sagacious  too,  so  sensible  and  shrewd, 
And  every  word  I  said  to  thee,  was  fully  understood. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OX.  147 

No  whip  was  e'er  laid  on  thy  back,  nor  blue-beech,  never 

never ! 
While  slaves  and  tyrants  wrought  and  fought,  we  lived  in 

peace  together. 

I've  no  doubt,  but  you  learned  some  things,  my  poor  old 

friend  from  me, 
And  many  a  silent  lesson  too,  I  also  got  from  thee ; 
I  ne'er  could  think  thou  wert  a  brute,  but  just  a  silent 

brother ! 
And  sure  am  I,  to  fill  thy  place  I'll  never  get  another ! 


148  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 


OCTOBER 


OT  in  russet,  sad  and  sober, 
£j^      Com'st  thou  here,  beloved  October, 

As  in  Europe  Old  ; 
Not  with  aspect  wan  and  hoary, 
But  array'd  in  robes  of  glory, 

Purple,  green,  and  gold. 
Over  continent  and  sea, 
To  hold  the  full  year's  jubilee, 

Thou  again  hast  come, — 
Borne  on  thine  own  fairy  pinion, 
To  our  dear  beloved  Dominion, 

Our  green  forest  home  ! 

0  ye,  who  live  in  cities  vast, 
Aside  your  weary  ledgers  cast, 

Tho'  'twere  but  for  an  hour ; 
O  come  and  see  this  magic  sight — 
This  revel  of  all  colours  bright — 

This  gold  and  purple  shower  ! 
0  come  and  see  the  great  arcades, 
And  catch  the  glory  ere  it  fades, — 

Come  through  no  sense  of  duty : 
But  see  with  open  heart  and  eye, 
This  glory  underneath  the  sky, — 

This  miracle  of  beaut)'' ! 

See  how  the  great  old  forest  vies 
With  all  the  glory  of  the  skies, 
In  streaks  without  a  name ; 
And  leagues  on  leagues  of  scarlet  spires, 


OCTOBER.  149 


And  temples  lit  with  crimson  fires, 

And  palaces  of  flame  ! 
And  domes  on  domes  that  gleam  afar, 
Through  many  a  gold  and  crimson  bar, 

With  azure  overhead ; 
While  forts,  with  towers  on  towers  arise, 
As  if  they  meant  to  scale  the  skies, 

With  banner  bloody  red. 

Here,  orange  groves  that  seem  asleep, 
There,  stately  avenues  that  sweep 

To  where  the  land  declines ; 
There  starting  up  in  proud  array — 
With  helmets  flashing  to  the  day — 

Troop  upon  troop  of  pines. 
Here,  evergreens  that  have  withdrawn, 
And  hang  around  the  open  lawn, 

With  shadows  creeping  back ; 
While  yonder  girdl'd  hemlocks  run 
Like  fiery  serpents  to  the  sun, 

Upon  their  gleaming  track. 

And  in  the  distance  far  apart, 
As  if  to  shame  man's  proudest  art, 

Cathedral  arches  spread ; 
While  yonder  ancient  elm  has  caught 
A  glory  'yond  the  reach  of  thought, 

Upon  his  hoary  head. 
But  every  object,  far  and  wide — 
The  very  air  is  glorified — 

A  perfect  dream  of  bliss  ! 
Earth's  greatest  painters  never  could — 
Nor  poet  in  inspired  mood — 

Imagine  aught  like  this. 

O  !  what  are  all  ambition's  gains  ? 
What  matters  it  who  rules  or  reigns 


150  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 

While  I  have  standing  here! 
Gleams  of  unutterable  things, 
The  work  of  the  great  King  of  Kings  ! 

God  of  the  full  crown'd  year  ! 
October  !  thou'rt  a  marvellous  sight, 
And  with  a  rapture  of  delight, 

We  hail  thy  gorgeous  pinion  ; 
To  elevate  our  hearts  thou'rt  here, 
To  bind  us  with  a  tie  more  dear, 

To  our  beloved  Dominion  ! 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  151 


INDIAN  SUMMER 


% 


ELCOME  !  welcome  !  Indian  Summer, 
Welcome  !  thou  the  latest  comer 

To  the  wood  and  chase  ; 
Thee  we  hail  with  deeper  gladness, 
Even  for  the  tinge  of  sadness, 

That  is  in  thy  face. 
Young  October's  reign  was  splendid, 
Old,  and  sear,  her  glory's  ended, 

And  to  gild  her  fall, 
Thou  descend'st  on  nature  hoary, 
With  a  spiritual  glory, 

That  surpasseth  all : 
A  glory  that  no  other  land 
Has  ever  seen,  howe'er  so  grand 

Its  lakes  or  woods  might  be — 
A  glory  even  bards  of  old 
Were  not  permitted  to  behold, 

In  climes  beyond  the  sea. 

Down  from  the  blue  the  sun  has  driven, 
And  stands  between  the  earth  and  heaven, 

In  robes  of  smould'ring  flame. 
A  smoking  cloud  before  him  hung, 
A  mystic  veil,  for  which  no  tongue 

Of  earth  can  find  a  name ; 
And  o'er  him  "bends  the  vault  of  blue, 
With  shadowy  faces  looking  through 

The  azure  deep  profound  ; 
The  stillness  of  eternity, — 
A  glory  and  a  mystery, 

Encompass  him  around. 


T52  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 

The  air  is  thick  with  golden  haze, 
The  woods  are  in  a  dreamy  maze, 

The  earth  enchanted  seems  ; 
Have  we  not  left  the  realms  of  care, 
And  entered  in  the  regions  fair 

We  see  in  blissful  dreams  ? 

O,  what  a  sacred  stillness  broods 
Above  the  awful  solitudes  ! 

Peace  hangs  with  dove-like  mien  ; 
She's  on  the  earth,  she's  in  the  air, 
O,  she  is  brooding  everywhere — 

Sole  spirit  of  the  scene! 
And  yonder  youths  and  maidens  seem, 
As  moving  in  a  heavenly  dream, 

Through  regions  rich  and  rare ; 
Have  not  their  very  garments  caught 
A  tone  of  spiritual  thought, 

A  still,  a  sabbath  air ! 
Yon  cabins  by  the  forest  side, 
Are  all  transform'd  and  glorified  ! 

O,  surely  grief  and  care, 
And  povertyswith  strife  and  din, 
Nor  anything  like  vulgar  sin — 

Can  never  enter  there  ! 

The  ox  let  loose  to  roam  at  will 
Is  lying  by  the  water  still ; 

And  on  yon  spot  of  green, 
The  very  herd  forget  to  graze, 
And  look  in  wonder  and  amaze, 

Upon  the  mystic  scene'. 
And  yonder  Lake  Ontario  lies, 
As  if  that  wonder  and  surprise 

Had  hushed  her  heaving  breast — 
And  lays  there  with  her  awful  eye 
Fixed  on  the  quiet  of  the  sky, 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  153 


Like  passion  soothed  to  rest, 
Yon  very  maple  feels  the  hush — 
That  trance  of  wonder,  that  doth  rush 

Through  nature  everywhere ; 
And  meek  and  saint-like,  there  she  stands 
With  upturned  eye  and  folded  hands, 

As  if  in  silent  prayer. 

0  Indian  Summer,  there's  in  thee 
A  stillness,  a  serenity — 

A  spirit  pure  and  holy, 
Which  makes  October's  gorgeous  train, 
Seem  but  a  pageant  light  and  vain, 

Untouched  by  melancholy  ! 
But  who  can  paint  the  deep  serene — 
The  holy  stillness  of  thy  mien — 

The  calm  that's  in  thy  face, 
Which  make  us  feel,  despite  of  strife, 
And  all  the  turmoil  of  our  life — 

Earth,  is  a  holy  place. 
Here,  in  the  woods,  we'll  talk  with  thee, 
Here,  in  thy  forest  sanctuary 

We'll  learn  thy  simple  lore ; 
And  neither  poverty  nor  pain, 
The  strife  of  tongues,  the&thirst  for  gain, 

Shall  ever  vex  us  more. 


154  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 


HURRAH  FOR  THE  NEW  DOMINION. 


JI/®ET  others  raise  the  song,  in  praise 
^=4     Of  lands  renown'd  in  story  ; 
The  land  for  me,  of  the  maple  tree, 
And  the  pine,  in  all  his  glory  ! 


Hurrah  !  for  the  grand  old  forest  land, 
Where  Freedom  spreads  her  pinion  ; 

Hurrah  !  with  me,  for  the  maple  tree, 
Hurrah !  for  the  New  Dominion  ! 

Be  her's  the  light,  and  her's  the  might, 

Which  Liberty  engenders : 
Sons  of  the  free,  come  join  with  me — 

Hurrah  !  for  her  defenders. 

And  be  their  fame  in  loud  acclaim — 
In  grateful  songs  ascending ; 

The  fame  of  .those,  who  met  her  foes, 
And  died,  her  soil  defending. 

Hurrah  !  for  the  grand  old  forest  land 
Where  freedom  spreads  her  pinion ; 

Hurrah  !  with  me,  for  the  maple  tree, 
Hurrah !  for  the  New  Dominion  ! 


ACRES  OF  YOUR  OWN.  155 


ACRES  OF  YOUR  OWN. 

jT^J  ERE'S  the  road  to  independence, 

tt-,        Who  would  bow  and  dance  attendance  ! 

Who  with  e'er  a  spark  of  pride, 

While  the  bush  is  wild  and  wide, 

Would  be  but  a  hanger-on, 

Begging  favours  from  a  throne  ; 

While  beneath  yon  smiling  sun, 

Farms,  by  labour,  can  be  won. 

Up  !  be  stirring,  be  alive, 

Get  upon  a  farm  and  thrive  ! 

He's  a  king  upon  a  throne, 

Who  has  acres  of  his  own  ! 

Tho'  the  cabin's  walls  are  bare, 
What  of  that,  if  love  is  there  ? 
What,  although  your  back  is  bent, 
There  are  none  to  hound  for  rent ; 
What,  tho'  you  must  chop  and  plough, 
None  dare  ask,  "  What  doest  thou  V 
What,  tho'  homespun  be  your  coat, 
Kings  might  envy  you  your  lot. 
Up  !  be  stirring,  be  alive, 
Get  upon  a  farm  and  thrive ! 
He's  a  king  upon  a  throne, 
Who  has  acres  of  his  own  ! 

Honest  labour  thou  wonld'st  shirk — 
Thou  art  far  too  good  to  work  ; 
Such  gentility's  a  fudge, 
True  men  all  must  toil  and  drudge. 


156  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 

Nature's  true  Nobility 
Scorns  such  mock  gentility  ; 
Fools  but  talk  of  blood  and  birth— 
Ev'ry  man  must  prove  his  worth. 
Up  !  be  stirring,  be  alive, 
Get  upon  a  farm  and  thrive  ! 
He's  a  king  upon  a  throne, 
Who  has  acres  of  his  own  ! 


WHIP-POOR-WILL. 


fHERE  is  a  lonely  spirit, 
Which  wanders  through  the  wood, 
And  tells  its  mournful  story, 

In  every  solitude. 
It  comes  abroad  at  eventide, 
And  hangs  beside  the  rill, 
And  murmurs  to  the  passer  by — 
"  Whip-poor-will." 

0,  'tis  a  hapless  spirit, 

In  likeness  of  a  bird  ! 
A  grief,  that  cannot  utter 

Another  woful  word. 
A  soul  that  seeks  for  sympathy, 

A  woe  that  won't  be  still ; 
A  wandering  sorrow  murmuring — 

"  Whip-poor-will !" 


ONTARIO.  157 


ONTARIO. 

„  FAR  away  from  my  forest  home, 

In  the  land  of  the  stranger  I  must  roam ; 
And  sigh  amid  flowers  and  trailing  vines, 
For  mine  own  rude  land  of  lakes  and  pines. 
And  I  long — O,  how  I  long  to  be 
In  mine  own  Dominion  of  the  free — 

Ontario !  Ontario  ! 
In  mine  own  Dominion  of  the  free — 

Ontario  ! 

The  old  school-house,  is  it  standing  still  ? 
Do  the  pines  still  hang  o'er  the  old  saw-mill  ? 
Is  the  maple  tree  still  fresh  and  green, 
That  over  our  old  log-house  doth  lean  ? 
Ah  !  back  to  them  all,  I  fain  would  be 
In  mine  own  Dominion  of  the  free — 

Ontario  !  Ontario ! 
In  mine  own  Dominion  of  the  free — 

Ontario ! 

And  does  the  blue-bird,  in  the  Spring 

Come  to  it,  as  of  old,  to  sing  ? 

And  'mong  its  branches  build  her  nest, 

And  rear  its  young  ones  in  its  breast  ? 

O,  had  I  wings  like  her,  I'd  flee 

To  mine  own  Dominion  of  the  free — 

Ontario !  Ontario ! 
To  mine  own  Dominion  of  the  free — 

Ontario  ! 


158  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 

And  what,  tho'  many  do  forget, 
There's  still  one  there  that  loves  me  yet ! 
I  see  her  form,  I  see  her  face — 
I  hear  her  voice  in  every  place  ! 
And  backward  still,  she  beckons  me 
To  mine  own  Dominion  of  the  free — 

Ontario !  Ontario  ! 
To  mine  own  Dominion  of  the  free — 

Ontario  ! 

And  still,  as  a  knock  comes  to  the  door, 
Tho'  disappointed  ten  times  o'er, 
She  runs — but  to  find  her  hopes  are  vain, 
Of  her  wand'ring  Billy  back  again  : 
And  back  to  her  breast,  I  fain  would  flee, 
And  mine  own  Dominion  of  the  free — 

Ontario  !  Ontario ! 
And  mine  own  Dominion  of  the  free — 

Ontario  ! 


THE  MAPLE  TREE.  159 


THE  MAPLE  TREE. 

MAPLE  tree,  0,  Maple  tree, 
0,  thou'rt  a  pride  and  joy  to  me : 
Of  all  trees  of  the  forest  green, 
There's  none  compares  with  thee  I  ween ; 
And  long  may  you  stand  so  green  and  grand, 
The  joy  and  pride  of  our  happy  land — 

0,  Maple  tree  ! 

And  all  the  birds,  they  love  thee  best, 

And  sing  the  sweetest  in  thy  breast ; 

And  there's  no  shade,  nor  spreading  tree, 

The  free-foot  rovers  love  like  thee : 

And  long  may  you  stand,  so  green  and  grand, 

The  pride  and  joy  of  our  happy  land — 

O,  Maple  tree ! 

And  in  the  merry  month  of  Spring, 

Ere  yet  the  birds  begin  to  sing, 

O,  how  the  school-boy  shouts  to  see 

The  drops  of  nectar  fall  from  thee  ! 

And  long  may  you  stand,  so  green  and  grand, 

The  pride  and  joy  of  our  happy  land — 

0,  Maple  tree ! 

And  maidens,  on  their  bridal  morn, 

With  boughs  the  festal  halls  adorn — 

And  children  clap  their  hands  to  see — 

And  old  men  love  the  maple  tree ; 

And  long  may  you  stand,  so  green  and  grand, 

The  pride  and  joy  of  our  happy  land — 

O,  Maple  tree ! 


160  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 

And  all  our  sons,  where'er  they  roam, 

Still  twine  thy  name  with  thoughts  of  home ; 

Tho'  far  away  from  thee  I  ween, 

Yet  memory  keeps  thy  branches  green  ! 

And  long  may  you  stand,  so  green  and  grand, 

The  pride  and  joy  of  our  happy  land —  • 

0,  Maple  tree ! 


AUTUMN   LEAVES. 

tHE  great  woods  of  Autumn  are  solemn  and  sere, 
Like  dead  generations,  the  leaves  disappear  ; 
And  the  great  winds  are  sighing,  "  Ye  tarry  not  here." 
Yea,  like  the  leaves  we  are  treading  upon, 
Here,  we  are  now,  and  to-morrow  we're  blown 
Into  the  vast  and  the  vacant  unknown — 

Gone !  Gone ! 

Where  we  have  come  from,  or  whither  we  go — 
Ah  !  not  the  wisest  of  mortals  can  know ; 
All  is  a  mystery  mingled  with  woe  ! 
Are  we  but  shadows  of  doubt  and  of  fear, 
Doomed  for  a  moment  to  grope  about  here. 
Then  in  the^blackness  for  aye  disappear  ? 

Oh,  dear ! 

Do  we  but  dream  of  a  future  sublime  ? 
Are  we  but  creatures  of  ashes  and  slime? 
Creatures  begotten,  and  swallowed  by  Time  ! 
Never,  ah,  never  !  to  merge  in  the  morn, 
Life,  but  a  mockery  devils  might  scorn  ! — 
Better,  far  better,  we  ne'er  had  been  born, 

Forlorn ! 


BOBOLINK. 


161 


BOBOLINK. 

EERRY  mad-cap  on  the  tree, 
Who  so  happy  are  as  thee ; 
Is  there  aught  so  full  of  fun, 
Half  so  happy  'neath  the  sun, 
With  thy  merry  whiskodink — 

Bobolink  !  Bobolink  ! 

With  thy  mates,  such  merry  meetings, 
Such  queer  jokes  and  funny  greetings  ; 
O,  such  running  and  such  chasing, 
O,  such  banter  and  grimacing, 
Thou'rt  the  wag  of  wags  the  pink — 

Bobolink!  Bobolink] 

How  you  tumble    mong  the  hay, 
Romping  all  the  summer's  day  ; 
Now  upon  the  wing  all  over, 
In  and  out  among  the  clover — 
Far  too  happy  e'er  to  think — 

Bobolink!  Bobolink! 

Now  thou'rt  on  the  apple  tree, 
Crying,  "  Listen  unto  me  ;" 
Now,  upon  the  mossy  banks, 
Where  thou  cuttest  up  such  pranks — 
One  would  swear  thou  wert  in  drink — 
Bobolink!  Bobolink! 

Nothing  canst  thou  know  of  sorrow, 
As  to-day,  shall  be  to-morrow ; 
Never  dost  thou  dream  of  sadness — 
All  thy  life  a  merry  madness, 
Never  may  thy  spirits  sink — 

Bobolink!  Bobolink! 


162  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 


TO  AN  INDIAN  SKULL. 

ND  art  thou  come  to  this  at  last, 
Great  Sachem  of  the  forest  vast ! 
E'en  thou  who  wert  so  tall  in  stature, 
And  modelled  in  the  pride  of  Nature  ; 
High  as  the  deer,  you  bore  your  head ; 
Swift  as  the  roebuck  was  thy  tread  ; 
Thine  eye,  bright  as  the  orb  of  day — 
In  battle  a  consuming  ray  ! 
Tradition  links  thy  name  with  fear, 
And  strong  men  hold  their  breath  to  hear 
What  mighty  feats  by  thee  were  done — 
The  battles  by  thy  strong  arm  won ! 
The  glory  of  thy  tribe  wert  thou — 
But — where  is  all  thy  glory  now  ? 
Where  are  those  orbs,  and  where  that  tongue, 
On  which  commanding  accents  hung  ! 
Canst  thou  do  nought  but  grin  and  stare 
Through  hollow  sockets — the  worms'  lair 
And  toothless  gums,  all  gaping  there  ! 

Ah  !  where's  that  heart  that  did  imbibe 
The  wild  traditions  of  thy  tribe  ? 
Oft  did  the  song  of  bards  inspire, 
And  set  thy  very  soul  on  fire, 
'Till  all  thy  wild  and  savage  blood 
Was  rushing  like  a  roaring  flood ; 
And  all  the  wrongs  heaped  on  thy  race, 
Leapt  up  like  demons  in  thy  face ; 
And  rushing  down  upon  the  plain, 
You  raised  the  war-whoop  once  again, 
And  stood  among  your  heaps  of  slain  ! 


TO  AN  INDIAN  SKULL.  163 

What,  tho'  to  thee,  there  did  belong  , 

A  savage  sense  of  right  and  wrong  ! 

In  that — how  like  thou  wert  indeed, 

To  those  who  boast  a  better  creed : 

Repaid  thy  wrongs  with  blood  and  gall, 

And  triumphed  in  thy  rival's  fall, 

Like  any  Christian  of  us  all. 

Like  me,  thou  hadst  thy  hopes  and  fears ; 
Like  me,  thou  hadst  thy  smiles  and  tears  ; 
Felt  Winter's  cold,  and  Summer's  heat ; 
Didst  hunger,  and  had  weary  feet ; 
Wert  warmed  by  kindness,  chilled  by  hate ; 
Had  enemies,  like  all  the  great ! 
Tho'  thou  wert  no  type  of  the  dove, 
Yet,  thou  hadst  to  have  one  to  love  ! 
O,  thy  Wenonah,  she  was  fair, 
And  dark  as  midnight  was  her  hair  ! 
Thy  wigwam  was  a  sacred  place, 
And  dear  to  thee,  thy  dusky  race. 
Ah,  yes  !  thy  savage  imps  were  dear, 
And  they  would  climb  thy  knees,  to  hear, 
And  drink  thy  tales  with  greedy  ear  ! 

What,  tho'  a  wild  rude  life  was  thine, 
Thou  still  hadst  gleams  of  the  divine — 
A  sense  of  something  undefined — 
A  Presence — an  Almighty  mind, 
Which  guides  the  planets,  rocks  the  sea, 
And  through  the  desert  guided  thee. 
The  dark  woods,  all  around  thee  spread  ; 
The  leafy  curtain  overhead  ; 
The  great  old  thunder-stricken  pine, 
And  the  cathedral  elms  divine  ; 
The  dismal  swamp,  the  hemlock  hoar  ; 
Niagara's  everlasting  roar ; 


164  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 

The  viewless  winds  which  rushed  to  wake 
The  spirit  of  Ontario's  lake  ; 
Did  not  its  mighty  anthems  roll 
Through  all  the  caverns  of  thy  soul, 
And  thrill  thee  with  a  sense  sublime, 
With  gleams  of  that  eternal  clime 
Which  stretches  over  Death  and  Time  ! 

And  oft,  like  me,  thou'dst  ask  to  know, 
"  Whence  came  we,  whither  do  we  go  ?" 
A  marvel,  ah,  poor  soul !  to  thee, 
As  it  has  ever  been  to  me. 
From  the  unknown,  we  issued  out, 
With  mystery  compassed  round  about ; 
Each  with  his  burden  on  his  back, 
To  follow  in  the  destined  track, 
With  weary  feet,  to  toil  and  plod 
Through  nature,  back  to  nature's  God. 
Mine  was  the  cultivated  plain, 
And  thine  the  leafy  green  domain ; 
Thine  was  a  rude  unvarnished  shrine, 
In  form  thy  idols  were  not  mine ; 
But  ah,  mine  were  as  strange  to  thee, 
As  thine,  my  brother,  were  to  me  ! 
And  yet  they  differed  but  in  name, 
And  were,  in  truth,  the  very  same. 

Dreams  of  the  hunting  fields  were  thine — 
What  better  are  those  dreams  of  mine  ? 
Ah,  my  Red  brother  !  were  not  we 
By  accident  compelled  to  be 
Christian  or  savage  ?     We  indeed 
Alike  inherited  a  creed. 
We  had  no  choice  what  we  should  be ; 
Race,  country,  creed,  were  forced  on  thee— 
Red  brother,  as  they  were  on  me  ! 


TO  AN  INDIAN  SKULL.  165 

Then,  why  should  I  have  loved  thee  less, 
Or  closed  my  heart  to  thy  distress, 
Red  rover  of  the  wilderness  ! 

Soon  must  we  go,  as  thou  hast  gone 

Away,  back  to  the  great  unknown, 

Where,  elevated  above  doubt, 

We,  too,  will  find  the  secret  out. 

Then  mayest  thou  th'  uneducated, 

Be  found  the  least  contaminated — 

From  civilization's  trammels  free. 

Who  knows,  poor  soul,  but  thou  mayest  be 

Exalted  higher  far  than  we. 


160  IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  TO  HER  GRAND- 
CHILDREN; OR  THE  EVIL  EYE. 

fj  IS  forty  years  and  upwards, 
I     Since  first  we  settled  here, 
All  in  the  trackless  forest, 

With  not  a  neighbour  near ; 
And  all  through  Jenny  Thompson — 

For  Jenny  wished  me  ill, 
For  there  be  wishes,  darlings, 
That  have  the  power  to  kill  ! 


For  oh  !  if  e'er  that  Satan 

Was  in  a  thing  of  clay, 
He  was  in  Jenny  Thompson, 

Upon  my  wedding-day. 
When  I  stood  up  with  Jamie, 

There  stood  the  wicked  elf, 
Who  tried  to  put  between  us, 

And  get  him  for  herself. 

And  with  her  eyes  she  cursed  me — 

Her  eyes  that  burned  with  spite  ! 
I  felt  them  darting  through  me, 

I  could  have  cried  with  fright. 
When  I  told  Jamie  of  it, 

He  only  smiled  at  me — 
For  the  ways  of  wicked  women, 

He  never  yet  could  see. 

I  lived  in  terror  of  her, 
But  Jamie  he  would  say — 
"  Freets  follow  them  that  fear  them"- 
And  kissed  my  tears  away. 


I 

GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY.  167 


But  still,  for  all  his  banter, 
I  lived  in  dread  and  fear ; 

And  often  I  advised  him 
To  come  and  settle  here. 

I  dreaded  the  wild  ocean, 

I  never  liked  to  roam, 
But  then,  along  with  Jamie, 

The  desert  were  a  home. 
And  we  had  peace  and  comfort — 

Tho'  not  unmixed  with  ill  — 
And  but  for  Jenny  Thompson, 

Might  have  been  happy  still. 

'Twas  in  the  depth  of  Winter — 

I'll  ne'er  forget  the  day, 
The  roads  were  badly  drifted, 

The  sky  a  sheet  of  gray  ! 
When  Jamie  left  that  morning, 

There  fell  on  me  a  fear  ; 
The  spirit  knows,  my  darlings, 

When  evil  things  are  near  ! 

And  while  that  I  was  sitting, 

And  knitting  all  alone, 
As  plainly  as  you  hear  me — 

I  heard  a  heavy  groan  : 
I  looked  up  from  my  knitting — 

Lord,  may  we  all  have  grace  !— 
And  there  stood  Jenny  Thompson, 

A  laughing  in  my  face. 

And  while  I  gazed  upon  her, 
They  bore  my  love  to  me — 

For  in  the  woods  he  perished 
By  the  falling  of  a  tree. 


168 


IDYLS  OF  THE  DOMINION. 


Oh  !  I  was  quite  distracted — 
Could  neither  weep  nor  pray, 

For  there  stood  Jenny  Thompson, 
And  there  my  Jamie  lay  ! 

T  bound  his  wounds  so  ghastly, 

And  smoothed  his  yellow  hair, 
And  watched  all  night  beside  him, 

And  Jenny  standing  there  : — 
Arrayed  as  for  a  marriage, 

In  bridal  robes  of  green, 
Her  evil  eye  upon  me — 

The  body  stretched  between  ! 

Through  all  that  awful  midnight, 

There  lay  the  silent  dead, 
And  there  we  two  were  watching, 

And  not  a  word  was  said. 
The  terror  has  not  left  me — 

Mine  eyes  are  nearly  blind, 
And  there  are  times,  I'm  thinking, 

I'm  hardly  in  my  mind. 


And  ever  since — my  darlings, — 

That  woful  night  and  day, 
I  wish  I  were  with  Jamie, — 

I  long  to  be  away ! 
And  all  through  Jenny  Thompson- 

For  Jemry  wished  us  ill ; 
And  there  be  wishes — darlings — 

That  have  the  power  to  kill ! 


INSCRIBED 


GEORGE    R   GOLDIE,   ESQ., 

"  MAPLES,"    CHATHAM. 


Miscellaneous  Scottish  Pieces. 


HALLOWE'EN. 


RECITED    BEFORE    THE    CALEDONIAN    SOCIETY, 
MONTREAL,    ON    HALLOWE'EN. 

VERYBODY  kens  that  spirits 

Walk  abroad  on  Hallowe'en; 
And  the  little  playful  fairies 

Hold  their  revels  on  the  green. 
Everybody  kens  they're  partial 

To  auld  Scotland's  bonnie  glens  ; 
Not  a  lintie  o'  the  valley 

Ilka  green  nook  better  kens. 


Mony  a  shepherd  at  the  gloamin' 

Scarcely  can  believe  his  e'en, 
Coming  unawares  upon  them, 

Dancing  in  their  doublets  green ; 
Singin'  sangs,  and  drinkin'  dew-drops 

Out  o'  cowslip  cups  sae  pale ; 
Or  a'  riding  on  the  moonbeams 

Doun  the  dingle  and  the  dale. 


172  MISCELLANEOUS  SCOTTISH  PIECES. 

Mony  a  chuffy-cheekit  laddie 

They  hae  wiled  by  birken  shaw  ; 
Mony,  a  mony  a  bonnie  bairnie, 

On  that  nicht  they've  charmed  awa', 
Weel  it's  kent  they  watch  o'er  lovers, 

A'  their  hearts  to  them  are  seen ; 
A'  their  quarrels  and  their  matches, 

They  mak'  up  on  Hallowe'en. 

Weel  it's  kent  they're  faithfu'  ever 

To  the  genius  o'  our  laun, 
And  in  a'  her  cares  and  troubles 

Send  her  aye  a  helpin'  haun  ; 
Them  it  is,  should  Donald  waver, 

Mid  the  battle's  loudest  din, 
That  keep  yelling  through  the  bagpipes, 

Till  he  gars  the  foeman  rin. 

'Tis  frae  them  the  Scottish  minstrels 

Learn  sae  weel  their  melting  art, 
Get  the  magic  words  that  open 

A'  the  fountains  o'  the  heart. 
Nane  can  dance  our  Gillie  Callum, 

Sing  our  Scottish  sangs,  I  ween, 
Saving  them  wha've  tippl't  wi'  them 

On  the  dews  o'  Hallowe'en. 

On  that  nicht,  there's  nae  denyin'  't ! 

Mony  a  Scot,  as  weel's  mysel', 
Hae  had  moonlicht  dealings  wi'  them, 

Gin  the  truth  they  like  to  tell. 
Weel,  ae  Hallowe'en  at  gloamin', 

Drowsy  sleep  bow'd  doun  mine  e'e  ; 
And,  to  my  surprise,  I  wauken'd 

Daundering  on  the  midnicht  lea. 


HALLOWE'EN.  173 


There  the  big  horn'd  mune  was  glowrin' 

Doun  upon  me  frae  the  sky, 
And  the  wee-bit  stars  a'  tremblin' 

Like  the  tears  in  beauty's  eye ; 
Suddenly  I  heard  a  rustle 

Down  beside  the  lonely  spring ; 
Gliff't  was  I,  nae  doubt,  to  see  there 

'  Elves  and  fairies  in  a  ring.' 

There  they  were,  a  sittin'  singin', 

Blithely  on  the  velvet  green  ; 
And  the  owercome  o'  the  sang  was 

'  Hey  for  Scotland's  Hallowe'en  !' 
Frae  their  lips  ilk  word  was  fa'in' 

Sweet  as  ony  dew'y  gem  ; — 
*  Kennedy  himsel'  ne'er  warbl'd 

Scotia's  ballads  like  to  them. 

In  the  midst  a  hoary  matron, 

Wi'  auld  Scotland's  spinning-wheel — 
"  Scotland's  auld  respected  Mither" — 

Oh,  I  kent  her  face  fu'  weel ! 
Gazing  on  her  rugged  features, 

What  unutterable  things 
Stirr'd  my  spirit,  while  above  me 

Flapt  innumerable  wings. 

Shades  of  ancient  Scottish  worthies, 

Heroes  with  the  laurel  crown'd, 
Martyrs,  patriots  and  prophets, 

Saints  and  sages,  hover'd  round  ; 
All  the  preachers  and  the  poets, 

All  the  spirits  great  indeed 
Wha  hae  twin'd  a  wreath  immortal 

Round  our  puir  auld  Mither's  heid. 


Kennedy,  a  celebrated  singer  of  Scotch  ballads. 


174  MISCELLANEOUS  SCOTTISH  PIECES. 


A'  the  stalwart  chiels  wha  perish'd — 

Perish 'd  !  no,  they  never  dee  ! 
Scotland,  'neath  thy  bluidy  banner, 

Wha  lay  doun  their  lives  for  thee. 
Lovingly  she  gazed  upon  them, 

Proudly  claim'd  them  for  her  sons  ; 
And,  with  all  a  mother's  fondness, 

Call'd  them  her  "  immortal  ones." 

Then  she  turn'd,  as  to  her  children, 

Exil'd  far  across  the  sea. 
Saying,  "  Lads  and  bonnie  lasses, 

That  I  nurs'd  upon  nry  knee, 
Tho'  the  ocean  rolls  between  us, 

Distance  cannot  hearts  divide; 
Still,  in  spirit,  ye  are  with  me, 

By  the  Forth,  the  Tweed,  and  Clyde. 

"  Tho'  amid  Canadian  forests, 

Or  on  Ganges'  banks  ye  be, 
Or  in  Afric's  wilds,  ye  ever 

Turn  with  longing  hearts  to  me  ; 
Tho'  in  distant  lands  ye  triumph, 

Still  for  Scotia's  hills  ye  pine — 
Ever  thinking  of  our  ingles, 

And  the  Hallowe'ens  langsyne. 

"  And  the  quiet  of  our  Sabbaths, 

And  our  psalm-tunes'  solemn  tones, 
Ami  our  altars,  old  and  hoary, 

'Mid  the  grey  memorial  stones. 
Weel  I  ken  my  early  lessons 

Deep  in  a'  your  hearts  are  set ; 
Ah,  the  Bible  and  the  ballads 

No,  ye  never  can  forget ! 


HALLOWE'EN.  175 


"  Ne'er  be  Fenian  fules  amang  ye, 

Stick  to  country,  kirk,  and  Queen 
And  wherever  ye  may  wander, 

Aye  keep  up  auld  Hallowe'en." 
Even  while  she  spoke,  the  grey  took 

Clapt  aloud  his  wings  and  crew, 
And  or  e'er  I  wist,  the  pageant 

Past  awa'  like  morning  dew. 


176  MISCELLANEOUS  SCOTTISH  PIECES. 


CARTHA  AGAIN. 

>H,  why  did  I  leave  thee  !  Oh,  why  did  I  part 

Frae  thee,  lovely  Cartha,  thou  stream  of  my  heart  ? 
Oh,  why  did  I  leave  thee,  and  wander  awa' 
Frae  the  hame  o'  my  childhood,  Gleniffer  an'  a'  ? 
The  thocht  o'  thee  aye  mak's  my  bosom  o'erflow 
Wi'  a'  langing  that  nane  save  the  weary  can  know ; 
And  a'  Fortunes  favours  are  empty  and  vain, 
If  I'm  ne'er  to  return  to  thee,  Cartha  again. 

When  I  hear  the  soft  tone  o'  my  ain  Lowlan'  tongue, 
Ance  mair  I'm  a  laddie  the  gowans  among ; 
I  see  thee  still  winding  the  green  valley  through, 
And  the  Highland  hills  towering  afar  in  the  blue ; 
But  the  lintie,  the  laverock,  the  blackbird  an'  a', 
Are  a'  singing — "  Laddie  ye've  lang  been  awa'." 
Nae  wonder  I  sit  doun  an'  mak'  my  sad  mane — 
"  Am  I  ne'er  to  behold  thee,  sweet  Cartha,  again  ?" 

When  I  hear  the  sweet  lilt  o'  some  auld  Scottish  sang. 
O  how  my  bluid  leaps  as  it  gallops  alang ! 
The  thumps  o'  my  heart  gar  my  bosom  a'  stoun, 
My  heid  it  grows  dizzie,  an'  rins  roun'  an'  roun', 
My  very  heartstrings  tug  as  if  they  would  crack, 
And  burst  a'  the  bonds  that  are  keepin'  me  back ; 
But  then  comes  the  thocht — here  I'm  doom'd  to  remain. 
And  ne'er  to  return  to  thee,  Cartha,  again  ! 

In  a  grave  o'  the  forest,  when  life's  j<'urnevjs  past, 
Unknown  and  unhonoured,  they'll  lay  me  at  last ; 
Aboon  me  nae  blue-bell  nor  gowan  shall  wave, 
Nor  nae  robin  come  to  sing  ower  my  grave. 
But  surely  !  ah  surely  !  the  love  o'  this  heart 
For  thee,  lovely  Cartha,  can  never  depai-t ; 
But  free  frae  a'  sorrow,  a'  sadness  and  pain, 
My  spirit  shall  haunt  thee,  dear  Cartha,  again. 


SCOTLAND  REVISITED.  177 


SCOTLAND  REVISITED;  OR,  THE  WANDERER'S 
RETURN. 


HEN  mony  a  year  had  come  and  gane, 
And  I'd  grown  auld  and  hoary, 
And  mony  a  nope  had  proven  vain, 

And  mony  a  dream  o'  glory  ; 
Then  backward  to  my  childhood's  name 

A  weary  langing  sent  me, 
I  found  my  native  vale  the  same, 
But  very  few  that  kent  me. 

There  were  the  hills  my  childhood  saw, 

They  look'd  as  if  they  kent  me ; 
And  well  they  might ! — when  far  awa' 

Oh  how  they  did  pursue  me  ! 
And  there  amang  the  broomy  braes 

I  often  paus'd  and  ponder'd 
Upon  the  joys  o'  ither  days, 

Then  on  again  I  wander'd. 

At  length  our  cot  appear'd  in  view, 

0  weel  I  kent  the  biggin, 
There  was  the  same  o'erhanging  yew, 

And  thack  upon  the  riggin' ; 
And  there  the  winnock  in  the  en' 

Wi'  woodbine  trained  sae  trimly, 
And  up  aboon  the  cosie  den 

Reek  swirlin'  frae  the  chimly. 

O  how  my  heart  leapt  at  the  sicht, 

Till  I  could  hardly  bear  it ; 
T  felt  as  if  I  would  gang  gyte, 

For  I  was  maist  deleerit. 


178  MISCELLANEOUS  SCOTTISH  PIECES. 


And  hurrying  to  the  sacred  spot, 
Ilk  thump  cam'  quick  and  quicker, 

I  tried  to  pray,  but  in  my  throat 
The  words  grew  thick  and  thicker. 

To  hide  my  tears  I  vainly  strove, 

For  nae  ane  cam'  tae  meet  me, 
Mae  Mither  wi'  her  look  o'  love, 

Nae  sister  cam'  tae  greet  me : 
For  gane  were  they,  baith  ane  an'  a', 

The  dear  hearts  that  I  cherish 'd, 
Gane,  like  the  flowers  o'  spring  awa', 

Or  like  a  vision  perished. 

This  was  the  spot  of  all  most  dear, 

Where  all  my  dreams  were  centr'd  : 
And  yet  wi'  trembling  and  wi'  fear, 

Beneath  that  roof  I  enter'd. 
There  was  the  place  my  father  sat, 

Beside  my  mother  spinning, 
An'  a'  the  bairns,  wi'  merry  chat, 

In  joy  around  her  rinning. 

There,  in  the  cottage  of  my  birth, 

The  same  rooftree  above  me, 
I  stood  a  wanderer  on  the  earth, 

With  nae  ane  left  to  love  me. 
Oh  !  I  had  often  stood  alone 

On  many  a  post  of  danger, 
And  never  wept  till  standing  on 

My  native  hearth — a  stranger. 

I  sought  the  auld  kirkyard  alane, 
Where  a'  the  lov'd  are  sleeping, 

And  only  the  memorial  stane 
Its  watch  aboon  them  keeping; 


SCOTLAND  REVISITED.  179 


It  only  said,  that  they  were  dead — 
Once  here,  but  now  departed ; 

A'  gane  !  a'  gane  !  to  their  lang  hame, 
The  true,  the  gentle  hearted. 

0  life,  I  cried,  is  all  a  woe, 

A  journey  lang  and  dreary  ; 
Is  there  na  hame  to  which  we  go, 
Nae  heart-hame  for  the  weary  \ 

1  cleared  the  weeds  frae  off  the  stane, 

And  lang  I  sat  and  ponder'd 
Upon  the  days  for  ever  gane, 
Then  weary  on  I  wander'd. 


180  MISCELLANEOUS  SCOTTISH  PIECES. 


PAISLEY    ABBEY. 


LL  hail,  ye  ruins  hoary  ! 
Still  stately  in  decay, 
Rear'd  were  your  aisles  and  sacred  pales, 

By  the  mighty  in  their  day. 
We  boast  of  our  achievements, 
And  smile  at  the  ages  mirk, 
Nor  seem  to  ken,  they  were  mighty  men 
Wha  built  this  "  Haly  Kirk." 

And  here  the  mitred  Abbots, 

In  this  their  abbey  gray, 
For  ages  reigned,  till  th'  glory  waned, 

And  the  sceptre  passed  away  ; 
But  still  their  spirits  linger, 

And  love  to  hover  round, 
'Mid  all  the  change,  that  seems  so  strange, 

On  their  consecrated  ground. 

And  th'  bell  is  tolled  by  spectres, 

At  the  hour  o'  midnicht  deep ; 
And  deid-lichts  seen  the  chinks  between, 

Where  the  monks  are  all  asleep. 
And  just  as  the  moon  is  waning, 

And  the  woefu'  east-wind  raves, 
The  Abbots  all,  when  they  hear  the  call, 

Start  up  frae  their  lowly  graves, 

And  stand  round  their  ruined  altar, 
In  their  robes  of  white  array, 

For  the  souls  unblest,  that  canna  rest, 
To  kneel,  to  weep  and  pray ; 


PAISLEY  ABBEY.  '       181 


And  still,  as  she  hears  the  summons 

Amid  the  Gothic  gloom, 
The  good  old  Queen,  with  her  regal  mien* 

Comes  forth  her  altar  tomb  : 

To  plead  for  the  hapless  friar 

Condemn 'd  through  countless  years 
To  weep  and  wail  in  the  "  Sounding  Aisle," 

And  echo  all  he  hears. 
Then  comes  a  kingly  shadow,f 

The  founder  of  this  place, 
And  there  he  stands,  with  uplifted  hands, 

And  pleads  for  his  hapless  race. 

And  he  looks  to  good  St  Mirin,| 

But  the  saint  can  only  say, 
"  The}7  never  shall  reign  in  the  land  again, 

They  have  passed  like  smoke  away." 
Then  slowly  there  arises 

A  dim  and  shadowy  train 
Of  souls  that  still,  have  a  taint  of  ill, 

And  the  mark  of  an  earthly  stain. 

And  there  aie  chiefs  and  barons, 

Each  head  of  an  ancient  line, 
With  sword  and  dirk,  as  they  did  their  work, 

In  the  bluidy  days  lang  syne. 
And  there  two  wrathful  spirits,§ 

Like  dark  clouds  hover  near, 
Montgomery  stern,  and  proud  Glencairu, 

Who  kept  the  land  in  fear  : 


*  Marjory  Bruce,  daughter  of  the  hero  of  Bannockburn. 

+  Paisley  Abbey  was  founded  by  Walter.  High  Steward  of  Scotland,  the  original  pro- 
genitor of  the  royal  Stuarts. 

1  The  patron  saint  of  Paisley. 

§  The  feuds  of  the  Montgomeries  and  Cunninghams  (See  Sempte'8  History  of  the 
Lairds  of  Glen). 


L82  MISCELLANEOUS  SCOTTISH  PIECES. 

With  their  Maxwells  and  Skelmorlies, 

Who  did  each  other  kill, 
After  a  life  of  feud  and  strife, 

They  look  defiance  still ; 
Or,  they  avoid  each  other, 

With  a  mutual  hate  and  dread, 
Or  meet  and  pass,  as  in  a  glass, 

But  not  a  word  is  said. 

And  there  the  great  Lord  Sempill, . 

With  the  bard  of  old  Beltrees  :* 
And  ranter  Rab,  and  piper  Hab, 

Wi'  the  buckles  at  their  knees. 
And  the  twa  auld  droothie  cronies, 

They  canna  yet  forget 
The  sang  and  tale — to  the  beef  and  ale 

They  look  wi'  a  lang  regret. 

And  there  the  youthful  gallants, 

The  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
That  still  must  moan  in  their  confines  lone, 

Till  their  sins  are  wash'd  away  ; 
And  there  they  stand,  a  rueful  band, 

Yet  they  scarcely  seem  to  know 
How  the  licht  o'  love,  sent  frae  God  above, 

Should  hae  been  their  deadly  foe. 

And  they  wha  destroy \1  the  Abbeys, 

And  heap'd  the  priests  wi'  scorn; 
Ah,  they've  had  time  to  rue  their  crime, 

Where  they  ne'er  see  licht  o'  morn. 
And  there  comes  Jenny  Geddes, 

And  sits  in  her  lang  deid  sark, 
On  her  bullet  stool,  the  puir  auld  fool ! 

To  sigh  o'er  that  Sabbaths  wark. 


*  Robert  Bemple  of  llclltreeK,  author  of  the  celebrated  ^ung-  of  Maggie  Lauder  and  the 
elegy  on  Babbie  Bimpson,  piper  of  Kilbarachan. 


PAISLEY  ABBEY.  183 

For  a'  wha  grace  resisted, 

A  waefu'  weird  maun  dree ; 
And  they  come  to  plead  that  the  church  may  speed 

The  hour  that  will  set  them  free. 
While  a'  the  wee  bairns  unchristen'd 

Come  up  to  the  font  to  greet, 
Till  the  cock  does  craw,  whon  they,  ane  and  a', 

Pass  aff  on  their  noiseless  feet. 


184 


MISCELLANEOUS  SCOTTISH  PIECES. 


LORD  LINDSAYS  RETURN. 


WEEL  I  njind  that  happy  morn  ! 
When  I  blew  the  hunter's  bugle-horn, 
And  the  sound  through  the  leafy  lane  was  borne. 

And  the  joyous  brothers,  fair  and  tall, 
Came  bounding  forth  from  the  castle  hall, 
With  their  ringing  welcome,  one  and  all. 

And  a  sister  came  with  her  fairy  feet, 
The  happy  sprite  of  that  green  retreat, 
Oh  why  !  oh  why  !  did  we  ever  meet  ? 

We  rang'd  the  dells  and  the  forest  free, 
And  O,  what  a  joyous  band  were  we, 
Happy  as  only  young  hearts  can  be  ! 

No  sorrow  came  to  those  bowers  so  green, 

For  we  had  no  time  to  think,  I  ween, 

On  the  what  might  be,  or  the  what  had  been. 

But  I  left  them  all  for  a  distant  land, 

Where  the  lakes  and  woods  were  wild  and  grand, 

But  my  heart  still  turn'd  to  that  joyous  band. 

Aweary  of  fortune's  fickle  gleams, 

I  sat  me  down  by  the  stranger's  streams, 

And  waver'd  away  to  the  land  of  dreams. 

Acrain  we  rang'd  through  the  forest  free, 

And  sang  our  songs  'neath  the  greenwood  tree, 

Happy  as  only  young  hearts  can  be  ! 


LORD  LINDSAY'S  RETURN.  185 

When  many  a  year  had  roll'd  away, 

And  mine  auburn  locks  were  tinged  with  gray, 

I  homeward  came  on  a  joyous  day. 

And  on  to  the  hall  I  hurried  fast, 

And  the  green  lanes  knew  me  as  I  past, 

And  the  old  hills  said  "  thou  art  come  at  last." 

Again,  as  on  the  happy  morn 

I  blew  the  hunter's  bugle-horn, 

And  the  sound  through  the  leafy  lane  was  borne. 

With  hope,  and  fear,  my  heart  did  bound 
But  no  one  came  at  the  welcome  sound, 
And  echo  only  answer'd  round. 

And  I  rush'd  into  the  castle  hall, 

But  T  found  for  the  true  hearts,  one  and  all, 

But  pictures  hanging  on  the  wall. 

For  the  joyous  ones  were  dead  and  gone, 

And  their  names  inscrib'd  on  a  mould'ring  stone, 

In  the  village  churchyard,  old  and  lone. 

And  the  forester  was  old  and  gray, 

And  he  said,  "that  like  the  flowers  of  May," 

He  saw  them  one  by  one  decay. 

And  I  sought  once  more  the  greenwood  tree, 
And  I  sat  me  down,  and  sighed  "  ah  me  !" 
Sorry,  as  only  old  hearts  can  be  ! 


M 


186  MISCELLANEOUS  SCOTTISH  PIECES. 


SCOTLAND. 


CALEDONIA  !  can  it  be 
A  wonder  that  we  love  thee  ? 
And  tho'  we  be  afar  from  thee, 
"We  place  no  land  above  thee. 
For  tho'  in  foreign  lands  we  dwell, 

A  sacred  tie  has  bound  us  ; 
Our  hearts  can  never  lose  the  spell 
Thy  mountains  threw  around  us  ! 

And  tho'  thy  breath,  is  cold  and  keen, 

And  rugged  are  thy  features ; 
Yet,  O,  my  country  !  thou  hast  been 

The  nurse  of  noble  natures. 
Who  left  us  an  inheritance — 

A  world  of  song  and  story ; 
A  wealth  of  sturdy  common  sense, 

And  doughty  deeds  of  glory. 

But,  Scotland  !  'tis  thy  sense  of  worth 

And  moral  obligations, 
Which  makes  thee  mighty  on  the  earth, 

A  ruler  'mong  the  nations. 
Does  not  thine  humblest  peasant  know 

The  truth  of  truths  supernal — 
That  Rank  is  but  a  passing  show, 

But  Moral  Worth's  eternal  ? 

Scotland  !  the  humblest  son  of  thine 

Is  heir  to  living  pages — 
Heir  to  a  literature  divine, 

Bequeathed  to  all  the  ages  : 


SCOTLAND.  i87 


Heir  to  a  language  void  of  art, 
And  rich  with  human  feeling- 

Heir  to  the  language  of  the  heart, 
Its  sweetest  tones  revealing  : 

Heir  to  those  songs  and  ballads  old, 

Brimful  of  love  and  pity, 
Which  fall  like  showers  of  living  gold, 

In  many  a  hamely  ditty. 
O,  sing  us  sangs  o'  ither  days ! 

0'  ruins  auld  and  hoary ; 
0,  sing  o'  langsyne's  broomy  braes, 

And  Freedom's  fields  o'  glory  ! 

O,  we  may  leave  our  mountains  high, 

Our  grand  old  hills  of  heather; 
Yet  song's  the  tie — the  sacred  tie— 

Which  binds  our  hearts  together. 
Then  here's  to  a'  wha  fecht  the  wrang, 

And  may  their  hopes  ne'er  wither- 
To  Scotland,  Freedom,  Love  and  Sang  ! 

For  they  aye  gang  together. 


188  MISCELLANEOUS  SCOTTISH  PIECES. 


THE  SEMPILL  LORDS.* 


,H,  let  me  sit,  at  the  midnight  hour, 

Where  the  Sempill  lords  are  sleeping ; 
While  the  moonbeams  shower 
Through  the  ruined  tower, 
And  the  stars  their  watch  are  keeping. 

While  the  wand'ring  wind,  like  a  weary  thing, 
Through  the  long  rank  grass  is  wailing  ; 

And  the  shadows  lone, 

Of  the  warriors  gone, 
On  the  mist}7  moonbeams  sailing. 

Ah,  ruin  sits  in  those  lordly  halls  !  -f- 
Where  mirth  and  joy  abounded  ; 

Where  warriors  dwelt, 

And  captives  knelt, 
And  the  harp  to  glory  sounded. 

Proud  Elioston's  a  ruin  gray  !  % 
And  none  to  tell  her  story, 

Save  the  winds  of  eve, 

That  come  to  grieve 
O'er  the  wreck  of  her  ancient  glory. 

And  where  are  the  minstrels,  old  and  gray, 
Who  sang  to  beauty's  daughters  ? 
They  have  past  away 


*  The  estate  of  Castle  Sempill,  lies  in  the  parish  of  Lochwinnoch,  and,  when  seen  from 
the  heights  around,  is  one  uf  the  most  beautiful  and  picturesque  scenes  in  Scotland.  It 
was  acquired  by  Colonel  William  M'Dowall,  in  1727 ;  he  demolished  Castleton,  one  of 
the  ancient  castles  of  the  Sempills,  and  built  a  modern  residence  on  the  site* 

t  The  Peil,  once  a  fortress  of  great  strength  ;  it  was  built  by  Lord  Sempill,  in  the  year 
l.r)60,  and  is  no«v  a  complete  ruin. 

\  Elioston  Castle,  the  most  ancient  residence  of  the  Sempills,  built  in  the  year  12o0, 
its  massive  walls,  and  arched  fastnesses,  are  rapidly  falling  to  decay. 


THE  SUM  PILL  LORDS.  189 

Like  the  list'ners  gay, 
Or,  like  music  on  the  waters. 

And  the  jocund  bard,  of  the  old  Belltrees,|| 
In  his  moss-grown  grave  is  lying ; 

And  the  songs  he  sung, 

That  through  Scotland  rung, 
On  the  echo  faintly  dying. 

And  lowly  lies  that  warrior  lord,§ 
Who  oft  so  gaily  bounded, 

On  his  dapple  grey, 

In  his  war  array, 
While  the  trump  to  battle  sounded. 

There's  no  one  left  of  that  lordly  race 
That  climbed  the  steep  of  glory ; 

And  their  might's  but  a  tale, 

Of  a  granddame  frail, 
And  a  ruin  old  and  hoary. 


||  Robert  Sempill,  of  Belltrees,  who  wrote  the  well-known  song  of  Maggie  Lauder,  the 
elegy  on  Habbie  Simson,  piper  of  Kilbarachan,  and  other  poems. 

§  Lord  Sempill  was  along  with  Regent  Moray,  at  the  battle  of  Laugside;  for  his  valour, 
achievements  and  counsel,  he  obtained  the  name  of  the  great  Lord  Sempill. 


190  MISCELLANEOUS  SCOTTISH  PIECES. 


MARY    WHITE. 

.^Tj^sYYE  mind  o'  the  lang  simmer  days,  Mar}>-  White, 
<3^^    When  we  gaed  to  the  auld  Patrick  braes,  Mary  White  ? 
When  I  pu'd  the  wild  gowans, 

And  wi'  a'  delight, 
I  hung  them  in  strings  roun' 
Thy  neck,  Mary  White  ? 

D'ye  mind  o'  the  sang  ye  wad  raise,  Mary  White  ? 
The  sang  o'  sweet  "  Ballenden  braes,"  Mary  White  ? 
It  couldna  be  love,  but 
A  nameless  delight, 
Which  thrill'd  thro'  my  bosom, 
My  dear  Mary  White. 

0,  that  was  a  sweet  happy  time,  Mary  White  ! 
I've  ne'er  had  sic  moments  since  syne,  Mary  White  ; 
When  we  look'd  at  ilk  ither, 

And  laughed  wi'  delight, 
And  hardly  kent  what  for, 
My  dear  Mary  White. 

We  were  young,  we  were  happy,  indeed,  Mary  White, 
Noo  care's  strewn  grey  hair  on  my  head,  Mary  White. 
My  hopes  hae  a'  wither'd, 

Wi'  sorrowfu'  blight; 
But  still  ye  are  green  in  my 
Heart,  Mary  WThite. 

And,  oh  !  do  ye  e'er  think  on  me,  Mary  White  ? 
Oh  !  then  does  the  tear  blin'  your  e'e,  Mary  White  ? 
Or  hae  ye  lang  wak'd  frae 

That  spell  o'  delight, 
And  left  me  still  dreaming, 
My  dear  Mary  White  ? 


MARY  WHITE.  191 


'Tis  often  I  think  upon  thee,  Mary  White; 
For  still  thou  art  dear  unto  me,  Mary  White. 
For  a'  that  this  heart  has 

E'er  kent  o'  delight, 
Was  nocht  to  the  moments 
Wi'  thee,  Mary  White. 

Do  ye  mang  the  living  still  bide,  Mary  White  ? 
Or  hae  ye  cross'd  ower  the  dark  tide,  Mary  White  ? 
Oh,  how  this  auld  heart  wad 

Yet  loup  wi'  delight, 
Could  T  again  see  you, 
My  dear  Mary  White. 


W*v"*."\.-  •-  ■  \.'%/\.-vrv-v 


192  MISCELLANEOUS  SCOTTISH  PIECES. 


I  WINNA  GAE  HAME. 

Jl  WINNA  gae  back  to  my  youthfu'  haunts, 
\     For  they  are  nae  langer  fair — 
The  spoiler  has  been  in  the  glades  so  green, 

And  sad  are  the  changes  there  : 
The  plou'  has  been  to  the  very  brink, 

O'  the  lovely  Locher  fa', 
And  beauty  has  fled  wi'  the  auld  yew  trees, 
And  the  bonnie  wee  birds  awa. 

Young  Spring  aye  cam'  the  earliest  there, 

Alang  wi'  her  dear  cuckoo, 
And  the  weary  Autumn  lingered  lang 

Wi'  her  lonely  cusha-doo  ; 
And  peace  aye  nestled  in  ilka  nook, 

0'  the  bonnie  gowany  glen, 
For  it's  alwaj^s  Sabbath  among  the  flowers, 

Awa'  frae  the  haunts  o'  men. 

How  aft  hae  I  paused  in  thae  green  retreats, 

0'  the  hare  and  the  foggy-bee, 
While  the  lintie  lilted  to  his  love — 

As  blithe  as  a  bird  could  be  ; 
And  the  yorlin  sang  on  the  whinny  knowe, 

In  the  cheery  morn  o'  spring, 
And  the  laverock  drapt  frae  the  cloud  at  e'en, 

To  fauld  up  her  weary  wing. 

And  the  mavis  sang  in  the  thorny  brake, 

And  the  blackbird  on  the  tree, 
And  the  lintwhite  told  his  tale  of  love, 

Far  down  in  the  gowany  lee ; 


/  WINNA  GAE  HAME.  193 

And  the  moss,  and  the  cress,  and  the  crawflow'r  crept, 

Sae  close  to  the  crystal  spring, 
And  the  water  cam  wi'  a  laughin'  loup, 

And  awa'  like  a  living  thing. 

And  it  sang  its  way  through  the  green  retreats, 

In  a  voice  so  sweet  and  clear, 
That  the  rowan  listened  on  the  rock, 

And  the  hazel  leaned  to  hear  ; 
And  the  water  lilies  raised  their  heads, 

And  the  bells  in  clusters  blue, 
And  the  primrose  came  wi'  its  modest  face, 

A'  wat  wi'  the  balmy  dew. 

And  the  hoary  hawthorn  hung  its  head — 

As  lapt  in  a  blissfu'  dream, 
While  the  honeysuckle  strained  to  catch 

The  murmurs  o'  that  stream  ; 
And  the  buttercup  and  the  cowslip  pale, 

To  the  green  green  margin  drew, 
And  the  gowan  cam'  and  brought  wi'  her 

The  bonnie  wee  violet  blue. 

And  the  red  red  rose  and  the  eglantine, 

And  the  stately  foxglove  came, 
And  mony  an'  mony  a  sweet  wee  flower, 

That  has  died  without  a  name  ; 
While  the  burnie  brattled  down  the  brae, 

In  her  ain  blithe  merry  din, 
And  lept  the  rocks  in  a  cloud  o'  spray, 

And  roared  in  the  boiling  linn. 

And  churned  hersel'  into  silver  white, 

Into  bubbles  green  and  gay, 
And  rumbled  round  in  her  wild  delight, 

'Neath  the  rainbow's  lovely  ray  ; 


194  MISCELLANEOUS  SCOTTISH  PIECES. 

And  swirled,  and  sank,  and  rose  to  the  brim, 

Like  the  snawdrift  on  the  lee, 
And  then  in  bells  o'  the  rainbow's  rim, 

She  sang  awa'  to  the  sea. 

But  the  trees  are  felled  and  the  birds  are  gane. 

And  the  banks  are  lone  and  bare, 
And  wearily  now  she  drags  her  lane 

With  the  heavy  sough  o'  care  ; 
And  fond  lovers  there  shall  meet  nae  mair, 

In  the  lang  lang  simmer's  e'en, 
To  pledge  their  vows  'neath  the  spreading  boughs, 

Of  the  birk  and  the  beech  sae  green. 

In  a'  my  wanderings  far  or  near, 

Through  thae  woods  sae  wild  and  lane, 
There  was  still  ae  spot  to  memory  dear, 

That  I  hoped  to  see  again ; 
But  I'll  no  gae  back,  I'll  no  gae  back, 

For  my  heart  is  sick  and  sair, 
And  I  couldna'  bide  to  see  the  wreck 

0'  a  place  sae  sweet  and  fair. 


THE  WEE  LADDIE'S  SUMMER  DAY.  195 


THE  WEE  LADDIE'S  SUMMER  DAY. 


T  the  call  of  the  blithe  cuckoo 
In  the  leafy  lanes  o'  June, 
Wee  barefooted  laddies  I  trow 

We  scampert  awa'  frae  the  toun, 
To  speel  up  the  Hie-Craig  rock, 
The  haunt  o'  the  hinny  bee ; 
Like  a  troop  o'  wee  fairy  folk, 
Wi'  our  happy  hearts  gaed  we. 

And  never  was  king  upon  his  throne, 

So  free  frae  every  care, 
For  the  licht  o'  our  hearts  on  nature  shone, 

Making  sunshine  everywhere. 
We  ranged  the  dells  and  the  forest  free — 

To  our  joy  the  valleys  rang — 
Or  sat  us  down  on  the  gowany  lee, 

To  drink  in  the  wild  birds'  sang. 

We  kent  the  place  whaur  the  blue-whaups  bide, 

An'  the  howff  o'  the  hoodie  craw  ; 
And  the  holes  where  the  wee  moss-cheepers  hide, 

We  kent  them  ane  an'  a'. 
And  0,  a  mair  joyous  band  than  we 

Was  never  aneath  the  sun  ! 
While  we  howket  for  the  hinnie  bee, 

In  his  byke  aneath  the  grun. 

0  then,  what  a  feast  o'  the  hinny  blabs  ! 

As  wee  laddies  only  ken ; 
Sic  nectar  never  cross'd  the  gabs 

0'  the  very  greatest  men. 


** 


196  MISCELLANEOUS  SCOTTISH  PIECES. 

We  cared  na'  for  sic  sma'  affairs, 

As  their  kingdoms  and  their  crouns ; 

Or  the  busy  world  wi'  a  its  cares, 
An'  its  weary  ups  an'  douns. 

We  kent  that  our  joy  wad  never  fade, 

That  the  world  was  made  for  play, 
An'  'twas  nonsense  a'  what  the  auld  folks  said, 

Of  the  sorrows  on  our  way. 
Sae  we  rumple-tumpl'd  doun  the  brae 

Wi'  our  hearts  sae  fu'  o'  glee, 
Or  swung  the  lee-lang  simmer's  day, 

On  the  auld  witch  hazel  tree. 

Or  followed  the  burn  wi'  its  twists  an'  crooks, 

As  it  jink'd  roun  the  spunky  knowe, 
Or  sat  us  doun  in  the  fairy  nooks, 

Whaur  a'  the  wee  violets  grou. 
And  O,  what  a  joy  was  the  wild  rose  tree — 

Awa'  in  thae  lonely  glens, — 
And  the  glint  o'  the  gowan's  e'e, 

Which  the  laddie  only  kens. 

Our  hearts  had  the  glow  o'  the  violet  rare, 

And  the  freshness  o'  the  dew ! 
And  the  lilt  o'  the  sang  that  filled  the  air, 

Frae  the  speck  in  the  bonnie  blue. 
And  nothing  cam'  our  joy  to  mar, 

'Till  the  sun  sank  in  the  west, 
And  the  laverock  drapt  frae  the  e'ening  star, 

And  the  cusha  socht  her  nest. 

And  gloamin'  doun  upon  bank  and  scaur, 

In  her  mantle  grey  wad  lie, — 
And  the  great  old  Highland  hills  afar, 

Were  leaning  against  the  sky. 


THE  WEE  LADDIE'S  SUMMER  DAY.  197 

And  the  Craik  cam'  out  frae  amang  the  braes 

Awa'  by  the  Peeseweep  Inn ; 
And  hame  we  gaed  'neath  the  gleaming  rays, 

0'  the  red  red  rising  mune. 

Ah,  happy  hearts !  we  can  meet  nae  mair, 

Thei*e's  been  changes  sad  since  then ; 
If  in  life  ye  be,  ye' re  changed  like  me, 

Into  auld  world  weary  men. 
But  the  hived  up  memory  o'  thae  days, 

Your  hearts  they  can  never  tine, 
And  aft  wi'  me  'mang  the  braes  ye'll  be, 

And  the  happy  days  langsyne. 


198  MISCELLANEOUS  SCOTTISH  PIECES. 


THE  DEATH  OF  EVAN  DHU. 

fHEY  place  the  Chieftain  in  his  chair, 
Beneath  the  aged  yew ; 
And  is  this  all  that  now  remains 
Of  the  mighty  Evan  Dhu  ? 

The  plaided  clansmen  gather  round, 

And  gaze  upon  his  face, 
They  fear  that  Death  will  soon  lay  low 

The  hero  of  their  race. 


Vainly  they  tend  and  talk  to  him, 
In  friendship's  soothing  tone  ; 

The  old  man  sits  with  drooping  head, 
Unconscious  as  a  stone. 


"  Go,  bring  the  minstrel  of  our  tribe, 
To  sing  the  mountain  strain — 
The  strain  he  loved,  t'will  bring  him  back 
To  consciousness  again." 

And  leaning  on  his  staff,  at  length 

The  aged  bard  appears, 
And  gazing  on  him,  thus  he  sings — 

But  scarce  can  sing  for  tears  : 

♦ 
"  A  cloud  hangs  o'er  Lochabar's  wilds, 
Her  vales  are  filled  with  woe, 
The  shaft  has  started  from  the  string, 
To  lay  her  hero  low. 


TEE  DEATH  OF  EVAN  DHU.  199 

"Behold  the  mountain  warrior, 
The  chief  of  sounding  fame, 
Whose  claymore  in  the  battle  flashed 
Like  a  consuming  flame  ! 

"  But  where,  ah,  where's  the  princely  air, 
And  the  step  so  firm  and  true — 
The  eagle  eye,  and  the  lordly  brow 
Of  the  mighty  Evan  Dhu  ! 

"  Are  these  the  very  hands  which  laid 
The  Sassenach  Giant  low, 
Who  dared  invade  Lochabar's  wilds, 
Full  fifty  years  ago  ? " 

But  he  heeds  him  not,  he  hears  him  not, 

And  the  weeping  clansmen  seem 
Like  fleeting  shadows  hov'ring  round, 

Or  phantoms  in  a  dream. 

Anon  he  sings  the  mournful  song, 

Some  exiled  heart  of  yore 
Sang,  when  he  thought  that  he  would  see 

Lochabar's  hills  no  more. 

But  he  heeds  him  not,  he  hears  him  not, 

And  the  weeping  clansmen  seem 
Like  fleeting  shadows  hov'ring  round, 

Or  phantoms  in  a  dream. 

Anon  he  wakes — the  battle  cry — 

The  Cameron's  gathering  strain, 
And  the  light  of  battle  flashes  in 

The  old  man's  eye  again. 


200  MISCELLANEOUS  SCOTTISH  PIECES. 

He  clutches  by  his  side,  as  if 
To  draw  his  ancient  brand, 
And  starting  from  his  couch,  aloft 
He  waves  his  withered  hand. 

And  shouts,  "  Advance,  Sons  of  Lochiel !" 

With  all  the  fire  of  yore, 
And  seems,  as  waving  in  his  hand, 

The  terrible  claymore  ! 

Great  Chieftain  of  the  Mountain  race  ! 

It  was  thy  last  adieu  : 
And  Clansmen  clasp  the  lifeless  form, 
Of  the  mighty  Evan  Dhu. 


LOVE.  201 


LOVE. 


E'VE  muckle  to  vex  us  puir  sons  of  a  day, 
As  we  journey  alang  on  life's  wearisome  way  ; 
But  what  are  the  troubles  with  which  we're  oppressed, 
If  love  makes  our  bosoms  the  hame  o'  her  rest. 

When  love  lichts  the  hearthstane,  there's  joy  in  the  ha', 
And  a  streak  o'  sunshine  on  ilk  bosom  doth  fa' ; 
The  ingle  blinks  blither,  affections  increase, 
And  the  cottage  she  turns  to  a  palace  o'  peace. 

Where'er  she  approaches,  a'  hearts  grow  sincere, 
She  hallows  a'  places,  makes  every  spot  dear ; 
For  wrang  canna  breathe  in  the  sphere  o'  her  grace, 
And  hate  flees  awa'  frae  the  licht  o'  her  face. 

Where'er  she  approaches,  where'er  she  appears, 
She  comes  aye  to  comfort,  and  wipe  awa'  tears, 
To  help  on  the  weary,  and  lichten  their  load, 
And  cheer  them  wi'  sangs  on  their  wearisome  road. 

And  O,  her  sweet  smile  makes  the  fallen  look  up, 
It's  the  ae  blessed  drap  in  their  sorrowfu'  cup  ! 
Then  0  may  this  heart  o'  mine  never  grow  sere ; 
O,  let  me,  'boon  a'  things,  hold  somebody  dear  ! 

O,  leave  me  but  love — tho'  my  rooftree  should  fa', 
And  the  gear  we  hae  gather'd  take  wings  an'  'wa' ; 
For  riches  and  grandeur,  the  things  we  hold  dear, 
Are  a'  but  vain  glories,  that  die  wi'  us  here ; 
But  love  burns  the  brighter  wi'  our  parting  breath, 
And  lichts  us,  at  last,  through  the  valley  of  death. 


202  MISCELLANEOUS  SCOTTISH  PIECES. 


THE  LANG  HEIDED  LADDIE. 

f^JE'S  a  lang  heided  laddie  that  Sannock  o'  mine, 
x-r~     And  sometime  or  ither  that  laddie  maun  shine  ; 
It  needs  nae  auld  spae-wife  his  fortune  to  ken, 
He'll  be  seen  and  heard-tell  o'  amang  muckle  men. 
But  bairns  are  no'  noticed  by  big  folks  ye  see, 
That  belang  to  a  puir  widow-woman  like  me — 
But  he'll  gar  them  notice  ere  many  years  go, 
And  listen  to  him,  be  they  willing  or  no ; 
And  to  his  decision,  he'll  make  them  a'  boo — 
He's  a  lang  heided  laddie,  our  Sannock,  I  trou  ! 

Alane,  by  the  burnsides,  he  ranges  for  hours, 
And  he  kens  a'  about  the  wee  birds  and  the  flowers. 
He's  off,  ere  the  cock  craws,  awa'  to  the  braes, 
And  he  stays  out  amang  them  for  hale  simmer  days, 
To  talk  wi'  the  peeseweep  and  lane  cushy-doo — 
He's  a  wonderfu'  laddie,  our  Sannock,  I  trou  ! 

There's  no'  an  auld  castle  that  towers  on  the  steep, 
Nor  a  field  whaur  our  auld  fechtin'  forefathers  sleep, 
Nor  a  bonnie  wee  burnie  that  wimples  alang, 
In  the  licht  o'  its  gladness,  immortal  in  sang. 
There's  no'  an  auld  kirk,  where  the  gray  howlets  cry 
To  the  dead  congregations  around  them  that  lie  ; 
There's  no'  an  auld  abbey  that  sits  in  the  rain, 
In  widowed  weeds,  sighing  o'er  gloiy  that's  gane, 
But  he  kens  mair  about  them  than  antiquars  do — 
He's  a  lang  heided  laddie,  our  Sannock,  I  trou  ! 

Auld  Birsie,  the  bodie  that  lives  by  his  craft, 
Ance  hinted  to  me,  that  my  laddie  was  daft ; 
I  bang \l  up  and  tauld  him,  that  "  him  nor  his  weans 
Wadna  likely  gang  daft  by  the  wecht  o'  their  brains, 
Or  their  honesty  either."     I  gied  him  my  min', 


THE  LANG  11  EI  DEI)  LADDIE. 


203 


And  the  body  can  hardly  look  at  me  since  syne; 
The  spite  o'  the  creature  was  easy  seen  through — 
He's  a  lang  heided  laddie,  our  Sannock,  I  trou  ! 

It's  lang  been  my  notion,  and  proud  wad  I  be, 

My  wee  friendless  laddie,  a  preacher  to  see, 

I'd  shear  for  the  siller,  I'd  do  any  work, 

To  see  my  wee  laddie,  a  licht  in  the  kirk  ! 

But  he  lauchs  in  my  face  when  he  sees  me  sae  fain, 

And  he  says,  that  he'll  preach  in  a  way  o'  his  ain. 

There  are  preachers,  he  says,  "ne'er  ordain'd  by  the  kirk, 

That  do  a  far  greater,  a  far  better  work." 

I  whiles  think  his  doctrines  are  really  no'  soun', 

But  he  lays  them  so  like  our  auld  minister  doun ; 

It's  a  perfect  delight  just  to  hear  him  gang  through — 

He's  a  lang  heided  laddie,  our  Sannock,  1  trou  ! 

He'll  talk  o'  ane  Plato,  a  great  man  nae  doubt, 

And  heathens,  that  folks  here  ken  naething  about ; 

When  but  a  wee  totem,  he'd  sit  by  himsel', 

And  spier  at  me  questions  'bout  heaven  and  hell. 

And  to  him,  it  was  a  great  puzzle,  he  said, 

To  ken  hoo  this  yearth  out  o'  naething  whs  made  — 

How  three  could  be  ane,  and  how  ane  could  be  three, 

Was  a  thing,  he  insisted,  that  never  could  be. 

Or  why  wTe  should  suffer  for  auld  Adam's  fa', 

Or,  why  that  God  e'er  made  a  deevil  ava' ; 

I  was  fairly  dumfoundered,  and  puzzled  to  learn 

How  sic  thochts  could  get  into  the  heid  o'  a  bairn. 

But  I  hae  nae  a  doubt,  they  cam'  into  his  heid 

Like  the  mumps,  or  the  measles,  or  grew  like  a  weed 

That's  soon  rooted  out  by  the  garduer  o'  grace, 

And  flowers  a'  the  fairer,  spring  up  in  their  place. 

I  cherish  the  hope  that  I'll  yet  live  to  see 

Him  waggin'  his  pow  in  a  pulpit  sae  hie ; 

Nae  doubt  he's  appointed  some  great  work  to  do — 

He's  a  lang  heided  laddie,  our  Sannock,  I  trou  ! 


204  MISCELLANEOUS  SCOTTISH  PIECES. 


HUGH  MACDONALD.* 

fLOVE  to  look  upon  thy  face, 
And  doat  on  every  feature; 
Thou  humble,  unassuming  soul  ! 
Thou  simple  child  of  nature  ! 
Thou  lover  of  all  lovely  things, 
With  thee  'tis  always  May  ; 
For  love  has  kept  thy  spirit  young, 
Although  thy  locks  are  grey. 

Thou  wert  not  made  for  cities  vast, 

Nor  for  the  strife  of  gain ; 
And  it  was  joy  to  steal  away 

To  nature's  green  domain  ; 
To  hie  thee  to  the  harebell  haunts, 

And  to  the  glades  of  green, 
Where  wild  wood  roses  hang  their  heads, 

And  hoary  hawthorns  lean. 

To  hear  the  cuckoo's  joyous  shout 

Come  welcome  o'er  the  lee ; 
And  'mong  the  purple  heather  blooms 

The  bugle  o'  the  bee. 
To  hide  thee  in  the  hazel  howes 

Of  some  lone  cushat  glen  ; 
Or  scale  the  Alpine  summits  hoar, 

Of  some  old  Highland  Ben. 

We  love  you  for  the  love  you  bore 

The  flow'rets  of  the  wild ; 
You  loved  them  with  the  artless  love — 

The  rapture  of  a  child  ! 

*  Author  of  "  Rambles  Round  Glasgow,"    "  Days  at  the  Coast,"  &c,  ic. 


HUGH  MACDONALD. 


205 


Yoti  loved  them  as  the  lover  loves, 
And  from  no  sense  of  duty ; 

You  loved  them  as  the  poet  loves, 
And  only  for  their  beauty  ! 

Thy  "flowering  fern"  shall  never  die, 

Thy  go  wan 's  aye  in  bloom, 
The  lark  is  always  in  thy  sky, 

The  linnet  in  thy  broom  ; 
For  poesy  hath  touched  thy  heart 

As  with  a  living  coal ; 
And  nature's  voices  evermore 

Keep  singing  through  thy  soul  : 


The  wail  of  winds  among  the  rocks, 

The  laughter  of  the  rills, 
The  silence  of  the  dreary  moors, 

The  thunder  of  the  hills  ! 
Thy  spirit  was  a  cell  wherein 

They  lov'd  to  linger  long, 
And  baptiz'd  in  its  living  font 

They  started  into  song  ! 

The  bridegroom  on  his  bridal  day, 

Doats  not  upon  his  bride 
With  look  of  deeper  love,  than  thou 

On  our  romantic  Clyde. 
Her  Highland  and  her  Lowland  haunts, 

Are  dear  unto  thy  breast ; 
But  dearer  far,  than  each,  than  all — 

My  green  glens  of  the  West ! 

And  led  by  thee,  once  more  we  see 
The  green  haunts  of  the  gowan  ; 

Again  we  dream,  beside  the  stream, 
Beneath  the  haw  and  rowan. 


206  MISCELLANEOUS  SCOTTISH  PIECES. 

And  lov'd  ones  that  are  now  no  more, 
From  out  their  graves  will  start, 

And  wander  with  me  as  of  yore, 
Upon  the  banks  of  Cart. 

And  how  you  lov'd  to  linger  round 

The  ruins  old  and  hoar  ! 
Where  mighty  chiefs  and  warriors  dwelt, 

And  minstrels  sang  of  yore : 
Old  Crookston  castle's  mould'ring  walls, 

And  Stanley's  turrets  gray ; 
And  hoary  Garnock,  telling  tales 

Of  glory  past  away. 

And  how  you  lov'd  the  ruin'd  shrines, 

Where  sits  grey  Melancholy, 
Still  calling  to  the  passer-by — 

"  Pause  !  for  the  place  is  holy  !" 
Is  not  "  Gray  Paisley's  "  Abbey  hoar, 

An  old  world-weary  moan, 
A  solemn  chant !  a  holy  hymn  ! 

A  prayer  that's  breathed  in  stone  ! 

And  with  what  joy  you  hung  around 

Our  fields  renown'd  in  story  ! 
And  how  your  eye  burn'd  in  the  light 

Of  Scotland's  ancient  glory  ! 
And  with  unwearied  feet  you  traced 

Her  scenes  renown'd  in  song  ; 
The  streams  that  gush,  and  leap,  and  rush 

In  deathless  strains  along. 

And  how  you  lov'd  to  treasure  up 
The  snatches  of  old  rhymes, 

Quaint  epitaphs  and  Legends  old, 
The  tales  of  other  times. 


HUGH  MACDONALD.  207 

And  many  a  pilgrimage  you  made, 

As  if  you  fain  would  number 
The  moss-grown — the  forgotten  graves, 

Where  Scotia's  martyrs  slumber. 

Thy  feet  shall  tread  those  haunts  no  more, 

And  Spring  with  all  her  train, 
Shall  miss  her  pilgrim  of  the  moor, 

The  mountain,  and  the  plain. 
Dear  heart,  farewell !  we  cannot  tell 

Where  thou  art  laid  to  rest ; 
But,  may  the  flowers  you  lov'd  so  well, 

Aye  bloom  upon  thy  breast ! 


208  MISCELLANEOUS  SCOTTISH  PIECES. 


SIGHS  IN  THE  CITY. 


EARILY  my  days  are  past ; 
For  my  heavy  lot  is  cast 
In  the  crowded  city  vast. 

How  my  spirit  longs  to  be 
From  this  dreary  prison  free — 
Oh,  the  laughing  meads  for  me  ! 

Oh  !  to  follow  the  cuckoo, 

While  the  glades  are  drapt  wi'  dew, 

And  the  lark  is  in  the  blue  ! 

Oh,  to  tread  the  flowery  sod, 
Free  from  all  this  heavy  load — 
One  with  Nature  and  with  God  ! 

Spring  is  forth  with  joyous  air, 
Strewing  gems  so  rich  and  rare, 
Showering  gowans  everywhere. 

I  will  go  where'er  she  goes, 
Pausing  often  where  she  throws 
The  vi'let,  and  the  red,  red  rose. 

And  we'll  seek  the  glades  of  green, 
Where  the  honeysuckles  lean, 
And  the  bluwarts  ope  their  een ; 

Where  the  auld  witch  hazels  hing, 
And  the  woodbines  creep  and  cling, 
Round  about  the  lonely  spring ; 


SIGES  IN  THE  CITY.  209 

Where  the  birds  are  blithe  aboon, 
And  the  laughing  runnels  rin 
Onward  in  their  merry  din, 

Treading  paths  the  wild  bee  knows  ; 
Where  the  grass  the  greenest  grows, 
In  the  haunts  of  the  primrose. 

Where  the  foxglove,  fair  and  tall, 
Leans  against  the  rocky  wall, 
List'ning  to  the  waterfall; 

Where  the  bonnie  hawthorn  hings, 
And  the  wee  gray  lintie  sings 
Of  unutterable  things : 

And  half  hidden  by  the  weeds, 
Bonnie  bluebells  hing  their  heads, 
Drapt  wi'  dew,  like  siller  beads. 

And  the  lily,  meek  and  mild, 
Blooming  in  the  lonely  wild, 
That  I  lov'd  so  when  a  child  ! 

;    Little  wildlings,  pure  and  bright, 
Still,  as  to  my  childhood's  sight, 
Ye' re  a  rapture,  a  delight ! 

Far  from  those  who  buy  and  sell, 
I  will  seek  the  quiet  dell — 
Lonely  ones  with  you  to  dwell ! 

Where  no  worldling  soils  the  sod, 
I'll  live  in  your  green  abode, 
One  with  Nature  and  with  God. 


210  MISCELLANEOUS  SCOTTISH  PIECES. 


WHEN  GEORGE  THE  FOURTH  WAS  KING. 


OW  green  the  braes  were  in  the  days 
When  life  was  in  its  spring  ! 
The  heart  was  light,  the  world  was  bright, 
When  George  the  Fourth  was  King  ! 

Then  buttercups  and  fairy  haps 

Cam'  laughing  in  wi'  May  ; 
And  mirly  birds  wi'  downy  caps 

Were  singing  a'  the  day. 

Then  nature's  bosom  had  a  beat 
Which  nothing  could  destroy ; 

The  very  grass  beneath  our  feet 
Look'd  up  and  laughed  for  joy. 

Oh,  then  the  sun  had  ne'er  a  spot ! 

And  all  was  green  and  gold  ; 
And  in  our  inmost  hearts  we  thought 

We  never  would  grow  old, 

But  oh,  the  flowers  have  lost  their  hue  ! 

The  birds  they  dinna  sing 
Sae  sweetly  as  they  used  to  do, 

When  George  the  Fourth  was  King! 

Then  mirth  in  ilka  cottage  rang, 
For  they  were  plenished  weel ; 

And  rosy  Lasses  laughing  sang 
Beside  the  spinning  wheel. 


WHEN  GEORGE  THE  FOURTH  WAS  KING.      211 


And  buskit  in  their  haine-spun  gray ; 

But  they  were  trig  and  braw, 
Tho'  ne'er  a  crinoline  had  they, 

They  stole  the  heart  awa'. 

But  fashion  rules  the  world  now, 

And  oh,  its  heart  is  cold  ! 
And  love  is  no'  the  sacred  lowe 

It  was  in  days  of  old. 

Oh  !  weary  fa'  this  waefu'  pride  ! 

It's  banished  rock  and  reel ; 
And  joy  has  fled  the  countiy  side, 

"With  Scotland's  spinning  wheel. 

And  weary  fa'  this  waefu'  lore 

Which  only  makes  us  vain  ; 
The  tree  of  knowledge  as  of  yore, 

Has  brought  but  grief  and  pain. 

How  green  the  braes  were  in  the  days 

When  life  was  in  its  spring ! 
The  heart  was  light,  the  world  was  blight. 

When  George  the  Fourth  was  king ! 


."s>  r\f*  /v\.v/w\/k/* 


212  MISCELLANEOUS  SCOTTISH  PIECES. 


THE  AGE  OF  JOLLITY. 


^jPjHE  age,  ah  me  !  of  jollity, 
(it).     Is  number'd  with  the  past ; 
For  our  new  world,  her  lip  has  curl'd, 
And  we've  all  grown  good  at  last. 

The  joyous  ways  of  our  youthful  days, 

No  more  in  the  land  are  known  ; 
With  the  rock  and  reel,  and  the  spinning  wheel, 

They  are  gone,  for  ever  gone  ! 
And  the  Maypole  gay,  has  passed  away, 

And  the  dance  upon  the  green — 
And  the  Hogmanay,  and  the  New-Year's-day, 

And  the  joyous  Hallowe'en. 

And  the  legends  old,  which  then  were  told, 

And  the  fairy  tales  of  yore ; 
With  the  minstrel's  lay,  ah,  well-a-day  ! 

They  are  heard  in  the  land  no  more. 
And  the  fairs  of  old,  with  their  joys  untold, 

Which  the  young  heart  doated  on ; 
With  the  puppet  shows,  and  the  dancing  jo's, 

They  are  gone,  for  ever  gone. 

We've  nae  bairns  noo,  with  the  rose-red  hue, 

That  romp  in  the  wood  and  glen ; 
But  in  their  place  we've  got  a  race, 

Not  o'  weans,  but  o'  wee,  wee  men — 
Wha  calculate,  at  nae  sma'  rate, 

And  are  always  taking  stock 
For  saving  cash,  all  else  is  trash 

To  our  wonderfu'  wee  folk. 


THE  AGE  OF  JOLLITY.  213 

And  what  have  we  got,  our  sires  had  not, 

In  our  intellectual  march, 
Save  vain  conceit,  and  the  way  to  cheat, 

With  our  stiff'ning  and  our  starch  ? 
Oh,  give  to  me  the  spirit  free, 

With  the  ringing  laugh  and  roar ; 
And  the  simple  heart,  devoid  of  art, 

As  it  was  in  the  days  of  yore. 

Lament  with  me,  for  jollity 

Is  number'd  with  the  past ; 
For  our  prim  world,  her  lip  has  euiTd, 

And  we've  all  grown  sood  at  last. 


214  MISCELLANEOUS  SCOTTISH  PIECES. 


OLD  ADAM. 


pLD  ADAM  was  a  character, 
bjgy.     Old  Adam  was  a  sage ; 
Ye'll  hardly  find  his  marrow  now, 

In  this  degen'rate  age. 
He  wore  aboon  his  raven  locks 
A  braid  kilmarnock  bonnet, 
A  hameart  coat  upon  his  back, 
Wi'  big  horn  buttons  on  it. 

A  plaid  out-owre  his  shouthers  hung, 

The  en'  fell  owre  his  sleeve ; 
A  crooket,  knotet,  hazel  rung 

Was  in  his  wally  nieve. 
His  breeks  were  side,  sae  were  his  shoon, 

His  legs  they  were  nae  rashes, 
And  button'd  upward  to  the  knee, 

Wi'  great  drab  splatterdashes  ! 

A  ringin'  laugh,  a  hearty  shake, 

A  bright  eye  beaming  o'er  you  ; 
Ahint  him  Towser  wags  his  tail, 

And  there  he  stands  before  you  ! 
And  yet  the  inner  man  was  form'd, 

On  nature's  model  plan; 
The  dress  but  hid  a  heart  that  lov'd 

All  Nature,  God,  and  Man. 

He  was  nae  tiling  that  stood  apart 

Frae  universal  nature ; 
But  had  a  corner  in  his  heart 

For  ev'ry  living  creature. 


OLD  ADAM.  215 


And  after  him,  o'er  a'  the  toon, 

The  dogs  delighted  ran  ; 
The  very  kitlins  kent  fa'  well, 

He  was  nae  common  man. 

His  heart  was  just  a  living  spring, 

Wi'  sympathy  o'erflowing ; 
And  round  its  brim,  the  sweetest  flowers, 

Of  Love,  and  Hope,  were  blowing. 
To  see  him — and  to  hear  him  speak — 
'   To  look  but  in  his  face, 
It  made  you  fa'  in  love  somehow, 

Wi'  a'  the  human  race. 

A  secret  eharm,  a  hidden  spell, 

A  mystery  had  bound  him  ; 
An  atmosphere  of  calm  delight, 

Was  always  hanging  round  htm  : 
'Twas  even  in  the  dress  he  wore, 

For  tho'  his  coat  was  clou  tit, 
Ye  never  saw't,  or  if  ye  saw, 

Ye  thocht  nae  mair  about  it. 

I  ne'er  could  solve  the  mystery, 

By  words  that  drappit  frae  him, 
I  felt,  but  couldna'  find  the  way, 

He  carried  conquest  wi'  him. 
And  weel  I  lik'd  to  sit  and  read 

The  Language  o'  his  e'e  ; 
And  try  to  sound  the  hidden  deeps 

Of  that  untroubled  sea. 

The  maist  o'  folk  wha  would  be  guid, 

And  keep  frae  doing  evil, 
Maun  aft  hae  battles  wi'  themselves, 

As  weel  as  wi'  the  deevil. 


216  MISCELLANEOUS  SCOTTISH  PIECES. 

And  some  are  guid  by  grace  o'  God, 
And  some  hae  to  be  skelpit ; 

But  he  was  guid,  and  just  because 
He  wasna  fit  to  help  it. 

His  joy  was  in  the  woods  to  rove, 

To  loiter  by  the  burn ; 
He  lov'd  wild  nature,  and  she  lov'd 

Her  lover  in  return. 
He  sought  her  green  retired  nooks, 

And  nae  ane  better  knew 
The  secret  haunts,  the  fairy  howes, 

Where  a'  the  wild  flowers  grew. 

And  he  would  follow  in  the  track 

Where  spring  had  newly  been, 
To  see  the  primrose  peeping  forth, 

And  bte  warts  ope  their  e'en. 
The  gowan  didna  better  lo'e 

Nor  did  the  foxglove  ken, 
The  hazel  howes,  the  fairy  knowes 

O'  bonnie  Calder  glen. 

Ilk  strange  wee  bird  o'  wood  and  wild, 

'Bout  which  the  learn'd  disputit, 
Its  name,  its  nature,  and  its  sang, — 

Weel  kent  he  a'  about  it. 
And  when  the  wee  gray  lintie  cam' 

Around  his  cot  to  sing, 
He  wadna  let  the  vagrant  touch 

A  feather  o'  her  wing. 

And  oh  !  how  he  would  sing  the  sangs 

0'  iangsyne's  happy  days, 
'Till  we  were  wafted  back  again 

Amang  the  broomy  braes. 


LOVE.  217 

We  felt  the  magic  o'  the  wood, 

As  we  were  wont  to  do, 
When  we  would  hush  our  hearts  to  hear 

The  voice  o'  the  cuckoo. 

Ance  mair,  the  flowers  were  living  things 

That  round  about  us  sprung ; 
It  wasna  dew,  but  siller  draps 

That  on  their  bosoms  hung  ! 
The  sky  again  was  bonnie  blue, 

Where  no'  a  speck  was  seen ; 
And  oh  !  the  grass  was  green  again — 

I  canna  tell  how  green. 

We  felt  the  breath  o'  meadows  sweet, 

Ere  yet  the  dews  depart ; 
And  ho  !  ance  mair  the  gowan  fair, 

Had  crept  into  our  heart. 
And  tho'  he's  lain  him  down  to  rest, 

Frae  a'  earth's  good  or  ill ; 
His  memory  is  fragrant  yet — 

He's  singing  to  us  still. 


218  MISCELLANEOUS  SCOTTISH  PIECES. 


THE  HALLS  OF  HOLYROOD. 


LET  me  sit  as  evening  falls 
In  sad  and  solemn  mood, 
Among  the  now  deserted  halls 

Of  ancient  Holyrood ; 
And  think  how  human  power  and  pride 

Must  sink  into  decay, 
Or  like  the  bubbles  on  the  tide, 
Pass,  pass  away. 


No  more  the  jo}rous  crowd  resorts 

To  see  the  archers  good, 
Draw  bow  within  the  ringing  courts 

Of  merry  Holyrood  ; 
Ah,  where's  that  high  and  haughty  race 

That  here  so  long  held  sway, 
And  where  the  phantoms  they  would  chase  ? 
Passed,  passed  away ! 


And  where  the  Monks  and  Friars  gray, 

That  oft  in  jovial  mood, 
Would  revel  till  the  break  of  day 

In  merry  Holyrood  ? 
The  flagons  deep  are  emptied  out, 

The  revellers  all  away  ; 
They  come  not  to  renew  the  bout — 
Where,  where  are  they  ? 


THE  HALLS  OF  HOLY  ROOD.  219 

And  where  the  plaidecl  chieftains  bold 

That  round  their  monarch  stood  ! 
And  where  the  damsels  that  of  old 

Made  merry  Holyrood  ? 
And  where  that  fair,  ill-fated  Queen, 

And  where  the  minstrels  gray, 
That  made  those  vaulted  arches  ring — 
Where,  where  are  they  ? 


Though  mould'ring  are  the  minstrels'  bones, 
Their  thoughts  have  time  withstood — 

They  live  in  snatches  of  old  songs 
Of  ancient  Holyrood. 

For  thrones  and  dynasties  depart, 
And  diadems  decay, 

But  these  old  gushings  of  the  heart, 
Pass  not  away. 


220  MISCELLANEOUS  SCOTTISH  PIECES. 


WE'RE  A'  JOHN  TAMSON'S  BAIRNS. 


,,  COME  and  listen  to  my  sang, 
!^£>     Nae  matter  wha  ye  be, 
For  there's  a  human  sympathy 

That  sings  to  you  and  me ; 
For  as  some  kindly  soul  has  said — 

All  underneath  the  starns, 
Despite  of  country,  clime,  and.  creed, 
Are  a'  John  Tamson's  bairns. 

The  higher  that  we  clim'  the  tree, 

Mair  sweert  are  we  to  fa', 
And,  spite  o'  fortune's  heights  and  houghs, 

Death  equal-aquals  a' ; 
And  a'  the  great  and  mighty  anes 

Wha  slumber  'neath  the  cairns, 
They  ne'er  forgot,  though  e'er  so  great, 

We're  a'  John  Tamson's  bairns. 

Earth's  heroes  spring  frae  high  and  low, 

There's  beauty  in  ilk  place, 
There's  nae  monopoly  o'  worth 

Amang  the  human  race ; 
And  genius  ne'er  was  o'  a  class, 

But,  like  the  moon  and  starns, 
She  sheds  her  kindly  smile  alike 

On  a'  John  Tamson's  bairns. 

There's  nae  monopoly  o'  pride — 

For  a'  wi'  Adam  fell — 
I've  seen  a  joskin  sae  transformed, 

He  scarcely  kent  himsel'. 


WE'RE  A1  JOHN  TAMSON'S  BATRNS.  221 

The  langer  that  the  wise  man  lives, 

The  mair  he  sees  and  learns, 
And  aye  the  deeper  care  he  takes 

Owre  a'  John  Tamson's  bairns. 

There's  some  distinction,  ne'er  a  doubt, 

'Tween  Jock  and  Master  John, 
And  yet  its  maistly  in  the  di'ess, 

When  evei^ything  is  known  ; 
Where'er  ye  meet  him,  rich  or  poor, 

The  man  o!  sense  and  hams, 
By  moral  worth  he  measures  a' 

Puir  auld  John  Tamson's  bairns. 

There's  ne'er  been  country  yet  nor  kin 

But  has  some  weary  flaw, 
And  he's  the  likest  God  aboon 

Wha  loves  them  ane  and  a' ; 
And  after  a'  that's  come  and  gane, 

What  human  heart  but  yearns, 
To  meet  at  last  in  licht  and  love, 

Wi'  a'  John  Tamson's  bairns. 


222  MISCELLANEOUS  SCOTTISH  PIECES. 


LONGINGS  IN  LONDON. 

/JJwT  Y  soul  is  sick  of  those  miles  of  brick, 
•d=g§r^     I'm  weary  of  "  London  Town  ;" 
I  long  to  flee  from  this  dismal  sea, 

And  to  Scotland  hurry  down. 
I'm  weary  of  smoke,  and  pale  faced  folk, 

And  I  long  to  flee  away ; 
I  long  to  breathe  on  the  mountain  heath, 

As  a  school-boy  longs  for  play. 

I'm  sick  of  routine,  I  would  change  the  scene, 

0  !  give  me  the  life  that  thrills ; 
Exchange  dead  books,  for  the  living  brooks, 

And  the  joy  of  the  savage  hills. 
0  !  set  me  free,  and  away  I'll  flee 

With  the  live  things  of  the  rocks, 
And  be  as  of  old,  a  hunter  bold, 

In  the  land  of  herds  and  flocks. 

0  !  for  the  joy  without  alloy 

'Mong  the  hills  of  Highland  Dee, 
Where  torrents  roar,  and  the  eagles  soar, 

And  the  stag  is  bounding  free. 
0  !  for  the  tent,  on  the  heather  bent, 

And  the  hardy  Highland  fare ; 
And  the  wild  halloo  of  our  jovial  crew, 

In  our  short  relief  from  care. 

O  !  for  the  flock  at  rest  by  the  rock, 
Each  stag  with  his  lordly  crown  ; 

How  still  they  lie,  'neath  the  bending  sky, 
And  the  great  hills  looking  down. 


LONGINGS  IN  LONDON.  223 

0  !  for  the  dash,  at  the  rifle's  flash, 
While  the  wounded  roe-buck  strains, 

And  the  bounding  blood,  like  a  roaring  flood, 
Is  sweeping  through  our  veins. 

As  we  take  the  track,  with  the  yelling  pack, 

And  the  startled  hills  reply — 
Delirious  joy !  all  earth's  a  toy 

When  the  chase  lights  up  the  eye  ! 
0  !  respite  rare,  from  the  city's  care, 

And  its  artificial  pains, 
With  the  pack  to  be  on  the  mountains  free, 

And  the  savage  in  our  veins. 


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